The Aftermath
by BrianaDwnCullen
Summary: Six years after Edward left to seek help, and two and a half years since they reconnected after being away from each other for four years. With a best-selling book by Bella and a career as a writer, has anything changed or is Edward still the same person he was six years before? Sequel to Promises of an Addict. AH/OOC/BxE
1. Chapter 1

**A sequel to '_Promises of an Addict_' – say what? Yeah . . . I can't say that updates will be fast and consistent, but they will come! :) **

**I don't own Twilight/its characters, but I do own this plot. **

* * *

"_**Monday night I feel so low**_

_**Count the hours they go so slow." Be With you, Enrique Iglesias**_

* * *

"What's wrong, Edward?" I ask as I sit down.

It's Monday afternoon, I just came back from my editor's office in Seattle to find Edward agitated, and pacing; it's going to be a rough night. He shakes his head and stands up when I touch his arm.

"Edward, what are you doing?" I ask, fearful.

He doesn't answer me as he grabs his keys and goes for the front door.

I jump up and try to go after him, but he stops me.

"I'm sorry," he tells me, his voice shaky and unstable.

"What—EDWARD!" I yell as he turns around and walks out.

I rush to the door and swing it open in time to see his car taking off, going faster than he should. I slam the door shut and slide down it, suddenly feeling as though I'm 20-years-old, and it's just like it was six years ago.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here is chapter one. Yes, I realize that most, if not all, of you probably want to kill me after reading the prologue - but then you wouldn't be able to find out the ending, now would ya? *smirks* And no, rest assured, I am NOT killing Edward off. (Somebody on Twitter asked me that tonight.) SO, is anybody interested, or am I wasting my time?**

* * *

"Please, Jesus, don't let him be high when he comes back," I say aloud as I look at the clock.

It's midnight. I called Emma hours ago to let her know what had happened this afternoon, and she told me that she would keep an eye out for him. She started dating last year, and her boyfriend—under some miracle—understands what Edward is like sometimes.

When it reaches 1:30am and there's still no sign of him, I force myself to crawl into bed after getting absolutely zero rewriting done like I'd promised Rose—my editor—I would do. The third and final book of _Traffic Lights _is due out early next year, and she suggested rewriting parts of it—it's not happening tonight though, obviously. I make my way into bed and curl up with the comforter tightly around, but it's nothing like having Edward body wrapped around me. We've been taking it slow, and he used to spend nights with me, when finally he agreed to just move into my place at the end of last year. It gave Emma the house to herself, plus it gave him and I the opportunity to relearn how each other works. I clutch the dark puffy comforter and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fall asleep, hoping that if I wake up, he'll be here.

* * *

When I wake up at 4am to shower and dress to be able to meet with Rose at 7am, I try not to be too disappointed when there's still no Edward. So, I take that shower and dress casually—a pair of cut-off jeans and one of Edward white t-shirt's. It's 6:45 by the time I get to the place we're meeting at—Starbucks. I walk inside and see that she's already here; always on time and even early, that one. I take the seat across from her and see that she's already ordered for me; I give her a grateful smile and take a sip of the caramel frap with whip cream, even though my stomach is in knots.

"Okay," she says, flipping open her notebook. "Did you get any writing done?"

Let me just say that Rosalie Hale isn't known for her nice and gentle attitude; that's not how she does business, and that isn't how she's made a fucking killing by doing what she does. People eyes literally go wide with fear by just hearing her name most times, but they also respect her because she takes absolutely no shit. So, when I tell her that no, I didn't get any done, I'm not at all shocked or hurt when she starts lecturing me.

"Izzy," she says quietly but firmly, leaning towards me, clasping her hands in front of her. "This is the third book—the final one, the most important of them all! You _need _to begin the rewrites ASAP. While it's great, it could be _better_, know what I mean? Now, what's holding you back?"

I sigh and am about to answer her when a girl who looks like she's in her teens comes up to our table, a napkin in hand; I can already guess what she's going to ask without her having to say. Saved by a fan, for once.

"Hi," I say kindly, smiling up at her; she's a short little thing. "How are you?"

She gives me a nervous grin. "I-I'm fine. C-could you maybe, I don't know, sign this for please?"

I nod and she hands me the napkin.

"Crap—Rose, do you have a pen?" I ask.

Rosalie reaches into her bag where I know she carries about ten thousand pens, and hands me a gel pen. I thank her and sign the napkin.

"What's your name, babe?" I ask her, looking up.

She blushes and says, "A-Alice."

I nod and sign it.

_To Alice – Thanks for coming up and saving me from a lecture! ;) Luv Izzy_

I hand her back the napkin and grin.

She grins, thanks me again, and bounces off back to her table, grinning from ear to ear. I smirk and lean back in my chair, for once since early yesterday feeling happy again. Rose looks at me, getting back to business.

"Okay, now that that's over; what's keeping you from your job?" she demands.

I roll my eyes. "Just some personal stuff, Rose."

She knows somewhat about Edward; she had to hear the whole story because back she was editing the first book (_Promises of an Addict_), she wanted to cut parts of it out, and I was adamant that each thing stay intact when the book got published, so she wanted a good reason why.

She sighs and sits up straight.

"Well, if your personal life is getting in the way of your career, I suggest you do whatever you need to in order to regain focus—because this business does not play, honey; it _can _and _will _replace in the blink of an eye. There's always somebody who's better that's looking for their chance at that big break," she tells me.

Rose isn't trying to be mean or telling me this to hurt me; she's just telling the truth, which I already know.

I nod. "I know. I'm sorry—I'll start on the rewrites STAT."

She begins packing up and I realize that we've been here for over an hour already.

"Don't apologize," she says, neatly packing things into her oversized Gucci bag. "Just start getting it done. I'd hate to see someone like you go down the tubes."

* * *

When I get back home, I start on the rewriters, not stopping until well into noon. I save the rewrites and send them to Rose, and then shut everything down and lay down in my bed to try to take a nap.

When I wake back up, I look at the alarm clock on the nightstand and realize that I've slept for over five hours; shit, I never even took anything out for dinner, never having planned on sleeping for that long. I get out of bed and use the bathroom, trying to wake up. It wasn't the best sleep I've ever gotten, but it was better than the three hours I got last night. When I come into the living room, I stop with a slight halt; the sight in front of me shakes my insides.

"Hi."


	3. Chapter 3

**If you haven't, please be sure to read "Promises of an Addict" before reading THIS! It shows what happened six years ago, and Edward's behavior will make much more sense, I promise. :)**

He speaks but I don't know what to say back. A part of me wants to go over to him, grab him, and cling on; the other part (a much bigger part) wants to deck him. I go for the silent treatment instead. It's silly and immature, but it's all that I can do to stop myself from hitting him and making things worse. It's not like before, like six years ago; I'm not going to immediately cradle him and baby him—not when I don't even know what happened to cause it this round.

"A-are you jus' gonna stand there?" he asks, worry in his voice.

I give him my answer by taking a seat on the couch that he's on—in the farthest corner that I can get and still be on the couch. He looks over at me and frowns; he knows I'm pissed off, upset, because he runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more than it already is.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking at me.

I pull my legs up and rest my arms on my knees, crossing them—my arms. I watch out of the corner of my eye as he slides towards me and takes the spot next to me; I can feel the heat that radiates off of him, and for a moment I wonder if he's sick.

_Oh, he's sick alright, _my brain quips.

He reaches up and moves some hair that loosened out of my ponytail during the nap out off my forehead, and I get up without a word and walk into the kitchen.

I take something out and start on dinner.

"Here," I say, putting a plate of piping hot homemade Mongolian Beef in front of Edward in the living room.

"Oh, so now you're talking to me finally?" he quips as I sit down.

I roll my eyes and take a sip of apple juice.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry," he says, pushing the plate away.

I shrug. "Suit yourself."

I know that he's not eating because I'm pissed off and he knows that I am—I know this because I'm the same way—in other words, he feels guilty.

_As he should, _I say to myself.

I eat even though I'm not very hungry myself. When I'm done, I go into the kitchen and take Edward's plate with me, putting it on the counter for whenever he wants it—I'm not _that _mean. I'm putting the rest of dinner into a large container when I hear him walk up behind me; I continue doing what I do, not wanting to do this right now. Edward being himself though, just has to take it a step or three further. He wraps his arms around my waist and holds me close, whispering in my ear—right now, they're sweet nothings to me.

"Let me go; I gotta put this in the fridge," I say in a emotionlessly.

I feel so much, though; I'm also so fucking tired—in more ways than just one.

He ignores me, keeping his arms around me, tugging me closer and wrapping his arms tighter around me.

"I'm sorry," he tells me, his lips at the top of my left ear.

I don't want his sweet-torturous apologies, he apologizes every time; I want a fucking explanation that I'm not even sure he can give.

I manage to get wiggle out of his hold and go to the fridge and stick the food in there, and then walk to the entryway.

"Your food is on the counter for whenever you decide you're hungry enough to eat," I say quietly.

I don't wait for him to respond; I head for the bedroom and get ready to sleep. It's still early enough—only 9:30—but all I want to do is climb into bed and get cozy—but something tells me that Edward has other plans in mind. I strip out of my jeans, leaving just my underwear and his shirt on. I go into the bathroom that connects to the room and wash my face clear of any make-up and grease. I take my time brushing my teeth and hair, and when there's nothing else left to do, I'm forced back into the room where I see Edward is perched against the doorjamb. I pull down the comforter and sheet on the bed, getting ready to get in.

"You look good in my clothes," he comments from the door. "Then again, you always have."

His comment rubs me the wrong way, and I pull off his t-shirt, throwing it on the floor near the bathroom entrance. I'm left in just my bra and underwear now, and I feel completely naked; he's seen me this way plenty of times since we reconnected, but tonight it feels different—it feels almost wrong in a way that I can't explain, pinpoint.

"You're going to sleep already?" he asks when I crawl into bed.

I nod.

"I'm tired—long day," I say quietly.

He walks further into the room and stops the foot of the bed, resting his hands on it, leaning into it.

"Um, 'kay; never mind then," he says.

I let out a long sigh.

"What is it, Edward?" I ask him, exhausted.

"I was wondering—hoping—that maybe we could talk?" He phrases it like a question.

I close my eyes for a moment, and try to pretend like this isn't happening. It's not that I don't want to hear what he has to say, because I really do; I'm curious beyond belief as to what spurred this recent episode on, but I know that if we talk tonight, it's only going to wind up turning into an argument, and one or both of us hurting the other one.

I shake my head. "Not tonight, Edward; I'm too tired."

He blinks a few times, and he looks fucking miserable, like I'm rejecting him in some way—maybe I am.

_Well, join the fucking club, buddy_, I think.

"Please, sweetheart? You don't have to say anything; just hear me out?" he offers, like that solves anything and everything.

I rub my hands over my face, trying to figure out how to respond without this turning into a fight; I doubt that there's a way, though, so I just respond, saying, "No. Whatever you have to say, it can wait until morning."

His hopeful look that he's been wearing since he walked to the bed falls.

I roll my eyes. "Don't gimme that. I've been waiting a day and a half almost—I think that you can wait just a 'lil longer 'til morning," I snap.

He straightens his posture, stepping away from the bed.

"Okay, damn; you don't have to be that . . . brutal, mean. Jesus," he says.

I run my fingers through my hair.

"Stop looking to start a fight, okay? Just . . . don't." I yank at my hair, frustrated.

"I'm not," he says, indignant.

I roll my eyes. "Right—sure you're not; my mistake!" I nod.

"Y'know what," he says, backing out of the room. "Maybe it was a mistake to come back here."

I nod, dropping my hands into my blanketed lap.

"Yeah, maybe it was." I don't mean a word of what I'm saying.

Sadness, anger, indignation takes over his face and he smacks the doorjamb on his way out, saying, "Damn it—fuck!"

I sit there for a few minutes, not thinking, not doing anything except breathing. Finally, I turn out the light and pull the covers over my body up to my chin.

It's 2am and I'm still awake. My brain won't shut up enough to let me sleep. Memories of how Edward and I used to be take over my mind, and I cry. I sit up and hold my sides, sobbing, trying to be silent about it; I don't want him to hear me. Eventually though, I let out a noise that even I don't recognize—it sounds like I'm choking; if Edward heard me, he doesn't do anything about it. I finally cry myself into exhaustion, and lay back down, and try to sleep.

Around 2:40, I hear him come in. I watch from just above the covers as he strips down to nothing but his boxers, and then slowly crawl in next to me. I go back and forth, debating between making him think I'm asleep or just sitting up, when I feel him envelope me in his warmth. His chest is warm but his arms are cool; I cover him with the comforter, and now he definitely know that I'm awake—I don't care, though; I miss him too much. I turn over and into his embrace, smothering my own face into his chest. His body fit, but not overly muscular; he started going to the gym when he was in rehab; he'd told me last year when I asked him about it. He silently holds me, both of us listening to the sounds of our breathing in sync with each other's; his fingers run up and down gently-lightly over his shirt that I put back on half an ago because I'd gotten too cold.

He starts to sing in my ear—a whisper.

_**Well it's been building up inside of me**_

_**For oh I don't know how long**_

_**I don't know why**_

_**But I keep thinking**_

_**Something's bound to go wrong**_

_**But she looks me in the eyes**_

_**And makes me realize**_

_**And she says "Don't worry baby"**_

_**Don't worry baby**_

_**Don't worry baby**_

_**Everything will turn out alright**_

I know that it's his way of a peace offering, like a truce kind of. I sigh and wrap my arm around his neck, tugging him closer, covering me.

"Jus' lay with me tonight," I say. "We'll talk more later."

I feel him nod, and some of the tension that's been residing in him since earlier leaves his body when he hears my words. He sighs.

He presses a kiss just under my right ear.

"I love you." He kisses my jugular.

"I love you." He kisses my pulse on my throat; I swallow and he licks.

"I fucking love you, and I'm so, so fucking sorry, sweetheart," he says quietly against my mouth.

My hand goes to his hair and I wrap my fingers in it.

"Sshh," I say, and kiss him.

I seek entrance into his mouth and he grants it without hesitation. After a moment, I pull away and he leans in to rest his forehead against mine; his eyes hold worry, sorrow, and apologies.

"I love you too . . . so motherfucking much," I say, and he smirks.

We fall asleep holding each other, and when I turn over onto my stomach, our fingers link, lacing together, and his leg comes up, going over my legs.


	4. Chapter 4

**All things Twilight belong to Stephenie Meyer. **

* * *

**Here's a little something funny for you from Twitter today:**

_**My friend: "Tell me something I don't know."**_

_**Me: "Ummm. Jesse wants you. No wait you knew that. I had a dream that I gave Peter Facinelli a blowjob; there that's something.:p"**_

_**My friend: "WOW and he's pretty sexy too Hahaha you whore! Lol jk"**_

_**Me: *snorts* A whore gets paid; nah, slut is more like it, lmfao. And yes he is sexy."**_

* * *

***snorts again* I'm done! :)**

* * *

When daylight comes, I open my eyes and immediately wish that I hadn't—it feels like my eyes are on fire. Turning over and peeking at the clock, I freak out when I see that it's a quarter past eleven. I stretch for a moment, and then smell the mouthwatering aroma of bacon; it seems as though Edward's taken over my kitchen—and that causes last night, yesterday, and the previous to come rushing back to me all in one dump. Clearing my throat, I get up and use the bathroom, use the mouthwash that's in there, and then head out into the living room. The bacon smell is even stronger in here.

_My place is too damn big_, I think to myself.

When I had purchased this place, I obviously wasn't thinking clearly. All I'd wanted to do was get out of my old place; now, it seems like there's too much empty space. Having kids—of my own, biological ones—was never something I'd planned on, or wanted. If a guy happened to come packaged with a kid or two, then that would be fine. Movement in the other room brings me out of my thoughts and I sigh, walking towards the kitchen to see what brought on Edward's breakfast making today. I step into the kitchen and see that the table is set, and Edward is over at the stove, in nothing but a pair of grey sweats, a hand towel swung over his shoulder; I giggle at the sight.

"Ouch! You little shit," he exclaims, being burned by some grease.

"You know, it kinda helps to turn the burner _off _before trying to remove splattering bacon from a pan—just a suggestion." I shrug.

He finishes getting the bacon onto a paper towel-covered plate, and then turns around to greet me; I smirk.

"You're hilarious," he deadpans.

I grin. "You better not have ruined my non-stick pan, dude."

His eyes widen slightly, and for a split moment I'm afraid that he's taken me too seriously—but then this Cheshire-like grin spreads across his face.

"Oh, so you're worried about your _pans_, are ya?" he says in a playful-teasing tone.

I watch, wondering, as he turns back to the counter and does something; I'm especially curious when he keeps one hand hidden behind his back, and advances towards me. He grabs my arm and holds me still, backing me up against the table. My eyes widen a little when he pulls his hand from behind his back and wipes syrup across the scar on my upper chest; I shriek and try to move away from him.

"Edward!"

He laughs and let's go of me. I go to the counter where I spot the syrup, and dip my index finger into it. I can feel him behind me, so I just turn around.

"What're you doing?" he asks, smirking, looking down at me.

I act as if I'm going to kiss him, and he leans down, giving me the perfect chance. I take the hand that has the syrup on it, and go for his bellybutton. It's the one place where he hates having anything stuck in, including fingers. He's pretty anal about that area; in addition, when you stick anything hard into it, it causes you to feel like you have to pee. I stick my index-syrup-filled-finger into his bellybutton and watch as his eyes go wide.

"Ewww," he groans, stepping away from me.

I smirk as he takes the dishrag and tries to get the syrup out of his bellybutton.

"Don't fuck with the creative master," I tell him, grinning.

He rolls his eyes and tosses the rag into the sink.

"Please—just 'cause you have an English degree does mean that you're a 'creative master', sweetheart. Now, go sit down and eat; I'll be there soon." He points to the table.

I do as he says, and watch him while he brings a plate full of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and breakfast sausage, and sets it down in front of me. I stare at the plateful of delicious carbs and fat.

"Jeesh," I mutter, picking up a fork. "I'm gonna need to hit the gym three times as much after this!"

Edward shakes his head in protest.

"Just eat, you," he tells me and starts to watch the pans.

He finishes washing the stuff and then joins me at the table, but he's not eating.

"You should eat," I tell him, nibbling on a piece of bacon.

"I snacked while I cooked," he says, leaning onto the table.

I take a bite of egg.

"These are really good," I say after swallowing.

He smirks. "You should've gone to cooking school!"

I roll my eyes and decide to just confront the giant elephant that I know is weighing down on both of us, though we won't admit it.

"What . . . what happened the other day, Edward?" I ask, taking a deep breath.

He fidgets with a paper towel, then covers his face with his hands.

"I—I don't know." He leans back in his seat, uncovering his face. "I really don't know."

I take a sip of cranberry juice and think.

This is what I was talking about; sometimes there isn't a reason—a fair explanation—for why episodes occur. Most of the time there is (work gets to be too much, stress levels rise, et cetera), but at certain times, like this, nobody can explain what brings them on. My best guess would be that he saw a commercial or something and it triggered his mind; that's been known to happen before—or, maybe there truly isn't any reason as to why this time; it just happened.

"Maybe . . . would you consider therapy, again?" I ask carefully.

He stopped going because he said he learned all that he needed to in rehab, and it wasn't helping anyway beyond that.

"I tried it—it wasn't helping," he tells me.

I nod.

"I know. I'm talking about a regular therapist, though; somebody who you can just talk to, call up, go in to see weekly or whenever it gets to be too much," I suggest, treading carefully.

He looks skeptical, and I guess I can't blame him.

"Please, E," I say, standing up.

I walk over to him and sit down across his lap, and his arms immediately go around me. My skin is still sleepy-warm and his fingernails feel good against it as they lightly trail up and down.

"I know someone who's really, really good at what they do," I say, changing positions.

I swing my legs over either side of him; he grips onto my waist.

"What—oh, I take it you saw someone—talked to somebody before?" he asks.

I nod.

"Yeah; it was right around the first year had gone by and I realized you weren't . . . you wouldn't be returning any time soon, so I looked up someone and began talking to him. He's helped a lot; he let me talk, and then if I needed anything, to call at any and all hours, day or night. He said that it wasn't healthy to hold shit in that that's what he's there for is for me to talk things out—he's actually the one who suggested I start writing," I explain.

"He?" Edward makes a face.

I roll my eyes. "Yes; he's older, in his upper thirties or forties—relax!"

He shrugs. "I was jus' hoping for a leggy blonde, maybe—obviously I'm not that lucky, though." He smirks.

I reach up and grip his ear, making him wince.

"O-ow," he whines, and I let go.

"I could always introduce you to Rose," I offer, already knowing the answer.

He rolls his eyes.

"No thanks. I've met her, and although she's hot as hell and could be a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model, she fucking scares me."

I smirk. "Yeah, true. Besides, she'd likely rip your dick off if you hit on her, and then where would that leave me? Using a vibrator, no doubt!"

A shudder runs through his body.

"You keep that tough as nails swimsuit model-bitch away from me and my precious jewels, and don't you even think about it! I work just fine, thank you very much."

I smirk. "Just don't piss her off, and you'll be fine; and yes I know, you work very well."

The playfulness wears off after that and it's back to discussing therapy. He's good at diversion tactics.

"Just think about it, please," I say softly. "Nobody's telling you to decide this second, but just think about it?"

He nods.

"You know I love you, right?" he asks, looking at me.

I nod, and my stomach gets an uneasy feeling, but I try to push it away.

"Yes, why?"

He shrugs. "Just making sure . . . incase anything happens."

He's being cryptic and worrying me.

"You're scaring me, Edward; what is going on?" I question him, holding his face in my hands.

"Nothing . . . I jus' wanted to make sure you knew; incase you get fed up, sick of me which I wouldn't ever blame you for," he tells me.

I laugh, but there's nothing humorous about what he just said.

"Stop it," I tell him. "I told you, I'll be here. I love you and care about you, and I'm not fucking going any-fucking-where."

He nods and drops the subject.

"So, how's that book comin'? It's the last one, right?" he asks.

I groan and get up to finish my now cold breakfast—brunch, whatever it is.

"I'm in the middle of doing rewrites," I say.

"How come?" he asks me.

"'Cause it's fiction this time, and I don't mind doing rewrites—plus, Rose says that certain things need to be rewritten."

He nods.

"Wait—wasn't your first book and its sibling fictional, too?" He raises an eyebrow, stealing a piece of bacon.

I bat at his hand but let him steal another piece, nodding.

"It's called a 'sequel', weirdo. But, basically; I just wouldn't let her edit anything out of either one of those, or do any rewrites—and it's only 'fictional' to the rest of the world. Between you, me, Emma, and Rose because she had to be given a reason why I wouldn't back down about not editing and rewriting those two, it's the real story—like I said, to everyone else, it's a story about two fictional characters," I say.

He nods in understanding. He already knew that Rose knows about him; I told him last year. I can't say that he was thrilled, but he seemed to accept the reasoning.

* * *

He sits with me while I do the last of the rewrites on the couch, the keys clicking away on the keyboard. When I pause to take breaks, he asks random questions. He bombards me with something just as I'm typing something in.

"Oh! I almost forgot—I've got tickets to see Daughtry," he tells me.

Not expecting him to say that, I accidently hit 'Paste', getting rid of the entire rewrite page; I slowly look up at him, and glare.

"Please, _please _tell me you're not fucking with me, 'cause I am gonna be _so _pissed about what just happened if you are!" I say, watching him closely.

"Well, I am fucking with you," he says, smirking. "But, not in that sense; I seriously DO have tickets. He's playing at Emerald Queen's Casino this weekend—third row."

He dodges the hit that I try to give and I lean forward, clicking 'Undo', getting my writings back. I save the document, send it to Rose, and then shut my laptop down. I lunge at him, and hug him tightly.

He chuckles, rubbing my back, and then holds me tight.

"By the way," he says into my ear. "I'll try the therapy."


	5. Chapter 5

**All things Twilight belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Just a tip: When you go to see a concert at the Emerald Queen Casino, you have to be at least 21-years-old and over. Also, I'm not sure if they have seats during concerts, or if people just stand.**

**Daughtry (my #1 FAVORITE band—I own all three of their albums—) played at the Paramount Theater in Seattle, NOT the EQC; I changed that tidbit. :)**

* * *

"Oh, uh, I called Seth—Dr. Gerandy—this morning, and made you an appointment to meet with him," I tell Edward as we walk into the Emerald Queen Casino.

He nods and we find our seats.

"You call him by his first name?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow at me.

I shrug. "It's like a tactic—helps break the ice, you know?"

He nods in understanding and his leg bounces at a rapid pace; he's nervous.

"When's the appointment?" he asks.

"Um . . . Tuesday at 3:00," I say.

He doesn't respond, instead he focuses on the stage up ahead.

"Hey, you didn't say anything about Hinder opening up for Daughtry," I say.

He smirks. "Surprise."

His eyes scan the surrounding area and his leg continues its rapid bouncing. I reach over and put my hand on it, trying to calm him down.

"Hey, you're fine. Relax before somebody thinks you're a junkie who hasn't had a hit in a day," I say.

"Oh, but I am," he says, and looks at me with a sardonic grin.

I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to control snapping at him.

"Not now, Edward, please? I'm sorry. Let's just enjoy the concert."

He nods. "I'm sorry."

I don't say anything, I just lean back in the comfortable seat.

He laces our fingers together.

"I'm sorry; I'm just nervous," he says into my ear.

I nod. "I know; it's alright." I give his fingers a good squeeze.

Hinder comes on stage and plays _Lips Of An Angel_, _Better Than Me_, and _Without You_. While I enjoy Hinder's music, I really came to see Daughtry. Finally, the band comes out and everyone, including myself, cheers. They open with _Renegade_.

"This is the song that got me my record deal," the lead singer says.

We all cheer and shout when he sings _Home_.

The last encore song is _It's Not Over._

.

.

.

"Thanks for taking me; I had so much fun," I tell Edward when we get home.

He nods at me, grinning. It's Saturday night and there's not much to do. I can think of a few things I'd like to do, but all of those concern Edward and I getting into bed—and truth be told, he hasn't touched me like that in . . . years. We live together, we're back to being closer than close friends like we were once upon a time, but damn it he still hasn't touched me. Oh okay, he's _touched _me all right; he just won't fuck me or love me even with all his jokes about how he works just fine. I'm not sure what his problem is, but I made myself an appointment with Seth for the same day as Edward, and I plan on bringing this up—it could get awkward, though, if Edward were to ever find out that Seth and I . . . never mind, he's not going to.

I'm changing out of today's clothes when Edward walks in.

"Hey," I say, discarding my jeans to the floor.

I dig out a pair of cerulean cotton short-shorts and put them on, along with its matching t-shirt.

"You just gonna watch me all night?" I joke, brushing my hair.

He shrugs and lies down on the bed, taking off his shirt and jeans; leaving himself in just boxers. I go over him once I'm done and climb on, straddling him. I sit on his lower half, careful not to hurt him; my palms rest on the mattress. I smirk down at him; I grind myself into him slowly, and although he definitely tries to hide it with his facial expressions, I can feel him poking me. I continue my grinding dance until he grabs my hips and tries to still me; I grab his hands, lift them above his head, and keep them there with mine, stretching my torso down along his. I've never been very comfortable like this, but right now I want it—it's almost as though I need, and maybe even crave it.

He doesn't stop me when I do this. I lay still on him, enjoying the soothing rhythm of his heartbeats. I release his hands and move mine down to hold onto his sides near his ribcage for a moment; I take a deep breath and inhale his scent. The smooth feel of his skin in my hands is nice, and I still have a hard time believing that he's really here. Sue me, but he was gone for almost four years; it's still a bit unbelievable that he's back, and trusts me this much. I would never bring this up with him though; it's bound to upset him, and I don't want that at all. Tonight's been good to us; why ruin it?

"Thank you," I say softly, into his skin.

"For what?" he asks quietly, running his fingers through my hair.

"For trusting me enough to let me back into your life after . . . all that went on. I pushed you into hanging out just to see what would happen; you didn't have to, but you did—thank you," I say, kissing his chest.

He sighs long, and I feel his belly connect with mine for a moment.

"I'm the one who should be doing the thanking, not you, goofy girl," he says.

I chance it and look up at him; there's sincerity and a little sadness, maybe some regret too, in his brown eyes.

"Huh?" I say.

He clears his throat. I move up a little and put my head in the crook of his neck; it's warm.

"You didn't have to trust me—in fact, you had absolutely _no_ reason to even want me back in your life; not after what I continued to do to you and Emma, too. You tolerated a lot—too much, more than you should've—and I still don't fully get why," he explains.

I'm about to say something when he continues, so I quickly close my mouth.

"All I knew two years ago was that I still loved you and when I saw you in the bookstore, I didn't know what the hell to do. When you called later that night with the letters, I was happy—can you believe that? Although you were in tears because of _me_, I was still _happy_ that you'd called and didn't just take off with the letters. When you kept insisting and asking if we'd ever talk again or see each other after that, I knew what I _should've _done—I 'should've' told you no, and stuck with it that answer. But, I couldn't sweetheart. I still loved you, and I felt horrible—I still do—about staying away for four years when really I'd been back for two, and could've seen you whenever during that time," he finishes.

I lift my head and maneuver so that I'm right above his face; I look him in the eyes.

"So, then you do understand," I say, my mouth inches away from his.

He looks confused, so I reiterate.

"You love me, right?" He nods. "And you didn't say 'no' because, well, there's no other way to put this, you wanted me and didn't say 'no' for your own selfish reasons?" I ask.

He nods sheepishly.

I nod as well.

"Well, there you have it, your answer that is."

"You stayed with me because you loved me?" he asks.

I nod yes.

"Yeah—selfish reasons, mostly," I say, smirking.

He rolls his eyes and tackles me, surprising me, and sends me flip-flopping onto my back; I squeal.

"I really don't deserve you at all," he tells me, lying down on top of me.

I roll my eyes and pull him to me, kissing him.

* * *

At a ripe seven in the morning the next day, my phone is ringing. Edward answers it while I hide underneath the covers, pretending to be asleep.

"Here," he says sleepily, and almost knocks my head with the house phone.

"Hmm?" I mumble from beneath my cotton cave.

"It's the Sports I IQ," he says, picking up and tossing the comforter away me.

I groan.

"I thought you loved me!" I hiss at him.

"While that's true, it's also way too fuckin' early for me to deal with the frigid SIQI."

"The who?" I ask, taking the phone from him.

"Sports Illustrated Ice Queen," he answers and rolls over away from me.

Now awake, I put the phone to my ear.

"Hello," I say.

"I hope he knows I caught all of that," Rose snaps as her own greeting.

I roll my eyes.

"What're you gonna do, chain him to your lair?" I joke.

"No! However, I could make his life hell by a few simple phone calls—although, that may already be on the rise as of 1am this morning," she tells me.

"Rose, what are you talking about?" I ask, becoming worried.

"I shouldn't be handling this, but Angela is on vacation and phoned me to let me know, so I told her I'd tell you myself," she says.

"Tell me _what_?" I ask.

It's extremely unlike Rosalie Hale not to cut to the bottom line of shit, even at the expense of others. Therefore, when she hesitates this way, you can bet your whole bank account and life that it isn't good.

She sighs.

"Somebody took pictures of you and Dopey last night at that concert; they're flooding Twitter as of 1am, and probably just about every other social media network there is."


	6. Chapter 6

**Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer. **

**There IS a method to this craziness/madness, I promise. It's gonna get crazier before it settles down, though. ;)**

* * *

When I hang up with Rose, I get up, go into the living room, and log onto my laptop. I bring up Google and start typing away. Rose was not lying (not that she would about this stuff); there are dozens upon dozens of sites linking to last night's concert and the infamous photos. I have a secret Twitter account that nobody knows that it's me where I follow fans, so I click on one of the links and bring up the picture. It's a little distorted, and since it was dark because the band was playing you can't really tell who the guy is, but you can definitely see that it's _me_. I bite my lip and continue going through Twitter until I find the person who posted the picture.

**IzzySh00r **_OMG they were sooo cute! Holding hands, cuddling, & he wrapped his arm around her waist!_

I snort, but what she said is true. I go through some more of her tweets, which are mostly replies to people.

**IzzySh00r** _U dont kno that! I think its cute! _

**IzzySh00r **_Mind MY business? Wh tell me that? If I wanna take a pic of my fave celeb, I will!_

I get curious and click 'View conversation'.

**promisesoftheafter ** **IzzySh00r **_Don't you think it would've been better to have asked Izzy if you could have a pic rather than assume? _

I read as much as I can of the comments of the pictures that were taken, and then I shut down my computer, having had enough. I should have expected this to happen; I mean, I have two books that are both bestsellers, and _Traffic Lights _hasn't done too badly. It was only a matter of time until someone discovered Edward. Speaking of him, he walks out of the bedroom just as I'm leaning my head back, and sits down next to me; he's not wearing anything except for his boxers, but it does nothing for me right now, which is kind of sad.

"So, what's the damage?" he asks.

I close my eyes and sigh.

"Somebody took pictures of us last night at the concert," I say quietly.

"So, what's the big fucking deal? People found out you're dating someone—you have a boyfriend—big deal," he says.

I can hear the smirk even with my eyes closed; his comment irks me though. I open my eyes and stare at him.

"Really, is that what you are? I assumed it was more of a 'friends with benefits' type of thing actually," I tell him with attitude.

He narrows his eyes at me.

"What, what gave you that impression?"

I shrug.

"Oh, I don't know. The fact that you touch, I touch you; I blow you, and you make me come because you still know my body after six fucking years, but we never actually said anything about a 'relationship', because the last I heard, you weren't ready," I say.

He winces at my crass explanation, but doesn't do or say anything to tell me I'm lying; because he knows I'm not.

"I—I didn't know you wanted a damn title . . . I assumed _we _didn't need one," he says quietly.

I frown, confused.

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

He exhales loudly.

"We've always been _us_; never before have we ever titled what we are—when we started going out when the summer before senior year, didn't we label ourselves then. So, I assumed that you wouldn't want one nowadays—but I'm presuming I'm wrong."

I shrug.

"Okay, never mind it then; I have my answer. I—" I'm cut off by the phone ringing.

I huff and go to answer it.

"Hello?" I say.

"Isabella!"

It's Angela Weber, my publicist.

"Oh, hi Angela; what can do I for you?" I ask, trying to be nice.

Angela is a sweet girl, but I'm just not in the mood to deal with anything like this right now.

"I assume Rosalie Hale filled you in about what happened?" she asks, sounding out winded.

I nod.

"Yeah, she did."

"Good. Listen, we'll need to do some damage control right away," she tells me.

"Seriously, Angela? Wouldn't it be better just to let the public think what they want? Contemplate it all they want, but keep our mouths shut?" I say.

She sighs.

"Yes, you're right. But, you have an interview with Leah Clearwater tomorrow at 10am, and I'm positive she's already caught wind of this. You know how she is about any type of gossip, Isabella," she tells me.

I inhale and then slowly let it out. Leah Clearwater, gossip queen and reporter for one of Hollywood's biggest money grabbing gossip TV shows. She's fucking cutthroat and will push, push, push until somebody who is above her tells her to back off; she'll also try to trick you into answering, thinking you'll cave.

* * *

**9:30am – the next day**

I'm getting ready for Clearwater's interview at the TV studio when Angela walks up as I'm getting my hair and make-up done.

"Remember," she says, sitting down. "If she starts to badger you, and you feel uncomfortable, just signal to me and I'll make sure they cut the interview short, all right?"

I nod.

I can handle Leah Clearwater just fine on my own, though.

* * *

**10:00am**

"Isabella," Leah greets me as we sit down across from each other.

I nod at her.

The guy behind the camera counts down, and then the camera goes on, and it's time.

"Leah Clearwater here with the one and only Izzy Swan!" she says into the camera.

She turns back to me.

"Izzy, how've you been?"

I put on a fake smile.

"I've been alright; can't really complain," I tell her.

She smirks. "That's certainly believable as of late, huh?"

She challenges me with her eyes and puts on a fake smile of her own.

"I'm sure you've heard about the pictures that are circulating around the internet, specifically Twitter, taken this weekend," she tells me.

I nod.

"Yeah, I went to a concert with a friend," I say, not lying.

Edward is my friend.

"Just a friend?" she questions, hinting that it's more.

"My personal life is private, Leah. I went with a friend of mine who surprised me with third row seats to one of my favorite bands; simple as that, really." I smirk.

"Really," she says. "Is he special? You guys close?"

"All I'll say is that I've known him since I was thirteen."

"They say that friendship often times blooms into more," she hints.

This is her tactics; try to trip you by hinting.

"And for the people who have that, then congrats to them. I'm sure it's not easy, but well worth it," I say.

"So, if you had a friend, and you fell in love with him, would you do anything about it?" she asks.

I sigh.

"Hypothetically speaking, it would depend on the situation. I would be afraid of losing the friendship portion, but I think that if you two are tight enough, and both trust each other, you can keep that friendship and have a relationship."

She nods.

"Okay, good enough I guess. Now, onto your books!"

Thank God.

"Your two bestsellers, _Promises of an Addict _and _The Aftermath_; how did you come up with those? They seem personal, no doubt."

I exhale.

"I was just going through some personal things back before the first book was even written, and when things got a little better, I decided to try my hand at writing; it became like an outlet for me. You're right—both of those books have personal sentiments for me," I tell her.

She nods, and I can see the curiosity burning in her soulless blue eyes.

* * *

When the interview is over, I ask Angela if I have anything else planned for today, and she says that I don't. She drives me home, telling me to be careful and to try to stay away from public spots—popular areas that the media roams.

"I have an appointment tomorrow with Seth Gerandy," I inform her as we pull up in front of my house.

She huffs, and I know what she wants me to do.

"No," I tell her before she can say it. "I'm not cancelling. I need this; besides, it's more for Edward than it is for me."

"What's wrong with him?" she inquires.

Angela is one of the people who don't about Edward and my history; she knows that my first book and its sequel are taken from my past, but she doesn't know that it's Edward.

I unlock the car door.

"You've read my first book, right?" I ask, knowing her answer.

She nods.

"Yep—it's what made me wanna manage you; why?"

"Think about it, Ang," I say.

She grabs hold of my arm as I go to climb out.

"Is he stable, Bella?" she asks.

I look at her; she's completely serious.

How can one honestly answer a question like this? I mean, he's an addict—just because he doesn't use anymore, that doesn't mean the urges aren't there, and he does have his episodes; so no, I guess he's not exactly 'stable'.

"About as stable as someone like him could hope to be—actually, he's better than I expected. He's going to see Seth because I pushed him to; it would give him an outlet while I'm away at signings and on tours, y'know?" I say.

She nods.

I climb and head inside.

In reality, I want Edward to speak with Seth because I want Seth's opinion of him. Yes, it would give him an outlet while I'm gone and that's partly why I pushed the option, but I also want to see what Seth's opinion is. I know he won't be able to tell me what he and Edward talk about behind closed doors—I'm not that naïve—but I do want to see if he can tell me anything as to what brings on those episodes when there doesn't appear to be any explanation. When something doesn't set him off, and an episode occurs, that's when he really worries me.


	7. Chapter 7

**Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.**

On Tuesday at 2:45pm, I lead the way into Seth's office. The woman operating the desk upfront spots me and smiles.

"Bella," she greets warmly.

Mrs. Cope is in her mid-sixties.

"Hi, Mrs. Cope," I say sweetly.

She smiles.

"What brings you around, dear? I haven't seen you since, gosh, since you stopped seeing Seth!" She laughs.

Her comment can be taken two ways, but the way that she meant it is since Seth and I stopped going out—he didn't feel it was right to continue seeing each other if he was going to keep treating me, and I'd agreed with him.

I nod.

"I know. That's actually why I'm here; I have an appointment with him at 3:00."

She nods and types away at her keyboard.

"Oh yes," she says, looking back up. "Why don't you have a seat?"

I nod and go to sit down, but she says something else that makes me pause.

"You know, I picked up your book the other day," she says.

I turn back to the desk and smile.

"Oh, really; which one?" I ask.

"_Traffic Lights_." She gives me a smirk.

I bite my lip.

"How do you like it?" I manage to ask.

I had never once pegged Mrs. Cope to be for reading something like that series; it's centered more around people in their twenties and college years, maybe late high school.

"It's very good, sweetie!"

I smile.

"Well, thank you," I say.

"Oh, and I also read your first book as well," she tells me.

I try to act pleasant at hearing this.

"Really," I say.

She nods.

"I liked that one, as well—although, I must say; sometimes I just want to knock that girl over her head for how much she puts up with that boy and his ways! I hope she grows up not to be so understanding and trusting—young love, though! Jake and I enjoyed it; you should come by sometime and see Jake!" She smiles.

Jake is her dog; I swear he's part wolf.

"Well, thank you; I'm happy you enjoyed it. You should really pick up a copy of its sequel, _The Aftermath_; it explains what happens afterwards, and you might just understand the guy a little more."

She nods and I step away, blowing out a breath. When I sit down next to Edward, he smirks at me.

"I take it you caught all of that?" I say, putting my bag on the floor.

He nods, still smirking.

"So, this Jake; should I be worried?" he asks.

I roll my eyes.

"Only if you think I'm into bestiality," I mutter.

"I told you your writing was good back in high school—you never did listen, though," he tells me.

I shrug.

"It wasn't until everything happened that I started to take it seriously," I say.

He nods.

A few minutes later, the door to Seth's office opens and he steps out.

"Isabella," he says, looking around.

"I'll be back soon," I tell Edward.

I stand up and take the short walk to the room, and he closes the door behind us. We both sit down and I sigh, running a hand through my hair.

"So," Seth says, leaning back in his chair. "What brings you 'round again?"

"Um . . . it's a long story," I say.

"Well, let's start with an easy question – why did you call me? There are thousands of other therapists—better ones—than me in Seattle alone, and still you chose to come back to me; why?" he says.

"'Cause you know me," I begin. "You know my story, what I went through, and now I just . . . I just need some advice."

He nods and tells me to proceed.

"I actually made this appointment because I wanted to get your perspective on someone," I say.

"Would it be the guy that's sitting right outside?" he asks.

I nod.

"Yeah," I say, and pick at my nails.

"Okay, and who is he?" Seth asks.

"Edward," I answer without looking up.

When I do peek up, I see that Seth is looking at the door, recognition in his expression. He knows about Edward, about what happened.

"Oh," he says. "I see; and what, exactly, did you need my advice on?"

I sigh slowly.

"Considering you know our history from start to finish, I was hoping you could tell me about reoccurring episodes," I say.

"Such as?" he asks.

"Well, he's better; episodes _usually_—and I use that term loosely, mind you—only come on when he's been stressed out, and when the pressure of something builds up and then the thought of pills enters his mind, and so on. But, sometimes—especially this latest one—nothing seemed to trigger it, not that I know of . . . unless he's just not telling me, then I don't know. It's when there doesn't seem to be any explanation at all is when he worries me the most," I tell him.

Seth clears his throat.

"Did Edward ever see a therapist of his own, Bella?"

I nod.

"I believe he did, once he was out of rehab, he continued with one until they couldn't help him any longer—that's what he told me, anyway."

"He never brought up the random episodes with them?" he asks me.

I shrug.

"I don't know; I didn't ask, and he didn't say anything about it. I'm guessing not, though," I say.

Seth hums in response.

"I would have to speak with him directly, see what his . . . condition is like; get _his _thoughts and ask him what goes through his mind when they pop up," he says.

I grin.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

He rolls his eyes.

"Of course you were."

I smirk.

"Honestly, it would also give him someone to talk to—like an outlet?—while I'm away coming up," I say.

He frowns.

"Where are you going?"

"Book signings in major cities," I tell him.

He nods and our time is up. We both stand up and he looks me over quickly.

"What?" I ask.

He shakes his head and says, "You look good."

I roll my eyes but grin.

He stops me as I go to open the door.

I look at him.

"You do understand that I can't tell you anything that we'll be talking about, right? That's completely up to Kyle with what he shares and doesn't share," he tells me.

I nod and then walk out, telling Edward that I'm done.


	8. Chapter 8

**Nothing of 'Twilight' belongs to me; everything belongs to Stephenie Meyer.**

**This is kinda just a filler chapter, I'd say. **

**By the way - y'all remember how sweet, mousy-like Angela was on the original Twilight? *snickers* You're about to meet a whole new Angela Weber. ;)**

* * *

_**Two Weeks Later**_

Angela called me over an hour ago, and I have been on the phone with her ever since, going over details of the book signing tour I'm preparing to go on. I have issues regarding it, all of them centering on Edward; I don't want to leave him alone. Although he now has Seth—Seth agreed to seeing him and they had their first official 'meeting' last week—I still have qualms about it.

"Isabella, he'll be fine," Angela tries to reassure me.

However, it doesn't quite work. She doesn't know Edward like I do; she hasn't been around him when that switch in his brain suddenly flips, and he gets a craving, and an episode comes on. She has read both books, but it's definitely experiencing it in person than just reading about it.

"I don't know." I bite my lip. "Can't this be put off any longer?"

I already know what her answer will be – that no, it cannot be held off any longer than necessary.

"I'm sorry Isabella," she says with finality. "But no, it cannot. You have people depending on you to be at these signings—tell me, what would your fans—the people that pay the big bucks and made you who you are today—think and say if you were to cancel because of a boyfriend?"

I know what she's trying to do, and it's not going to work; I know that I'm going on this tour, and that's that.

"Don't do that Angela," I warn her. "Although, I think that the majority of them might just be a little more understanding than you give them credit for."

She hums.

"Well, this still has to happen, so it's definitely happening. It's just a signing, plus you have a cell phone. There's also Skype, so I honestly don't see the big problem."

Of course she doesn't.

"Alright, I'm done fighting," I say, resigned. "I'll fucking go."

* * *

"Hey," I say hesitantly, crawling into bed.

Edward's already laying down, a Sports Illustrated in his hands. I actually don't mind when he reads them; he's been doing it since high school, anyway, and I would be a complete hypocrite to deny _that _when I myself ogle somebody like Channing Tatum.

"Hey, what's up?" he asks, flipping a page.

"Um," I say, getting situated.

Edward takes notice of my nervousness and closes the magazine, putting it on the nightstand that's on his side; he turns his body to face me.

"What's on your mind, B?" he asks, worried.

I latch onto my lip and bite down hard.

He frowns and reaches over, stopping me from chewing my lip off.

"Alright, now you're making me nervous as fuck—what's goin' on?" he gently demands.

I groan, because I'm honestly not too sure at all about how he's going to take this—it could go so many damn ways.

"Y-you know that book tour that's coming up?" I start.

He nods, brows creasing together.

"Well, um, i-it's in two weeks," I whisper.

I carefully watch him as I say this, trying to judge his reactions. To my surprise, he doesn't take it too badly.

"I'll fucking miss you—but, you're worried, right?" he says.

I nod.

"Yeah . . . I don't wanna leave you."

"Seth and I discussed your tour last week; he said that I can call him whenever—if I feel that I need to. I'll-I'll be fine, sweetheart," he says, looking at me.

A part of me doesn't believe him. Yes, he'll have Seth, but maybe it's me as well; I haven't really been away from him since he came back; and this is really fucking close to the last episode, which also scares me.

We talk some more and snuggle and I eventually fall asleep on him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Everything 'Twilight' belongs to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Another filler-type chapter. Savor it, 'cause yeah, it's a-comin'! ;)**

**Does anybody like Florence and the Machine's music? :)**

* * *

I spend the next two weeks between packing and trying to spend time with Edward. He surprised me a few days ago by offering to go to the store to pick up some things at the store that I had forgotten and needed. When everything is double-checked and even checked a third time, I finally have time to sit down and relax—or, at least try to relax.

"_Isabella, are you ready?" _Angela calls me from the car.

It's 4am on a Saturday; Angela told me three days ago that we would leave on Saturday so that I could be given Sunday to unwind and prepare for the start on Monday. Edward is awake and is busy bringing my luggage out to the waiting SUV for me. I only packed the essentials – _my _stuff—jeans, shorts, t-shirts, et cetera. I already knew that the hair and make-up people would be arriving with the 'camera-ready clothes'. I look around one last time, and then watch Edward walking back inside, and over to me.

I throw my arms around him and cling onto him; he squeezes me back just as hard.

"I'll miss you," he whispers into my hair.

I nod against his shoulder, trying not to cry. It's okay, because Angela comes busting through my door a moment later, looking annoyed.

"C'mon, Bella; we have to get there two hours early, and there's still Customs to get through." She taps her foot.

I don't say anything as I continue my hold on Edward.

"Bella," Angela says, softer this time. "Let's go."

It's Edward who let's go first; if I had it my way, he would be coming with me—or I'd just find a way to stuff him into my suitcase.

I eventually release my hold when my brain suddenly kicks in, telling me to be careful, to not become too attached again.

"I'll see ya when you get back," he tells me.

I nod, and Angela all but pushes me out the door.

We get into the SUV and since I'm on the side that faces my house, I look out as we pull down the street, staring at Edward who watches me go. I turn back around in my seat and sigh, clearing my throat.

"We'll wait until we're on the plane to go through everything," Angela tells me.

I nod; I know that this is her way of being sympathetic; I think she understands how I feel. She once told me—back in the beginning—that in order to get to where you want to be, you must sacrifice certain parts of your life. If you're willing to do that, you will be okay; I'm not sure if I believe her or not.

I turn back to the window to stare at the cloudy sky, and watch the roads that I've seen countless times.

* * *

"Okay," Angela says once we're both seated on the plane.

I buckle myself in and sigh, listening to her tell me what's on the agenda.

"We're heading to Los Angeles first, and from there we'll be going to Phoenix, Arizona; Denver, Colorado. We'll hit parts of Nashville, hit Indianapolis from there; Pittsburgh will be on our way to New York. Sound good?" she says.

I give her a nod.

I my iPod on and block out the rest of the world, texting Edward quickly to tell him we're about to take off.

**Be safe. I love you, baby girl. –e**

The captain comes on and says we're ready for take-off; I send another quick text before shutting off my phone.

**I LOVE YOU TOO, –B**

I turn it off and slip it into my bag, and lean back in the first class seat, trying to relax as Florence and The Machine's _Heavy In Your Arms _comes on through my earphones.


	10. Chapter 10

**Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer; I just borrow. :)**

**Sorry about the short chapters, but they're building up to something—I know, I keep saying that don't I? *bites nails* It's true, though. :)**

**If this gets reported 'cause of something I added in (I won't say 'what' that something is), I'm gonna be mad. **

* * *

We landed at LAX five hours ago; we're currently in my room at the hotel. Angela has been briefing me on everything that's going to happen tomorrow. I'm too tired from the flight to really care, though.

"Why don't you get some rest," she says, clearing off the bed of her stuff.

I nod and when she leaves, I take out my notebook and write.

_**Your love is like a scented air; it blows past me, but it leaves its mark in its wake. It's beautiful and ripe, like the finest of fruits, but it is also forbidden. The forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest they say; but have they ever known a love that is poisonous, and can kill if you're not careful? Oh, but that is the love that holds on the strongest; it never perishes. The beautiful, poisonous, forbidden fruit is addictive – it leaves you wanting more after just one taste. **_

I type it out into a text and send it to Edward, and then shut off my phone to sleep for a while.

* * *

_**Monday – the first signing/meet and greet, Los Angeles, CA**_

"Hi," I say, smiling up at the teenage girl.

I'm almost an hour into the first signing, and believe it or not, I had actually forgotten how crazy L.A. can get at these things. I lost count of how many books I've signed already, but it's only the start. A blonde girl, a short little thing, steps up to the table.

"H-hi," she says hesitantly.

I smile up at her, trying to ease her; she's nervous, I can tell.

I sign her book and say bye as she leaves.

Another girl, probably in her early twenties, steps up. She has longish dark hair that's down and looks like it hasn't been brushed, and face clear of make-up. She has Ray-Bans on. She's wearing a black leather jacket that looks designer-expensive; when I glance over, I can see the tops of her shoes – black and white Converses.

"Cool shoes," I tell her, taking the book she just handed me.

She smirks and quietly thanks me.

_**Thanks for coming! Nice ring, btw. :) –Izzy Swan**_

When I hand the book back to her, I see said ring. It's plain gold, and it's on her index finger; I smirk and get ready for the next person in line.

* * *

I have interviews for the rest of the day, and when I finally set foot on the airplane for Arizona, I'm exhausted. I reach my pocket and pull out my phone; the plane won't be taking off for another fifteen minutes, and Angela is busy with something else—probably something to torture me further. I dial Edward's cell, just in case he's not at the house. He doesn't answer, so I try the landline; he answers.

"_Hello," _he says, sounding like I just woke him up.

"Fuck, did I wake you?" I ask, biting my lip.

He clears his throat, and I hear movement in the background.

"_Nope, not really." He definitely sounds tired._

"Liar," I laugh.

He chuckles sleepily.

"_Okay, yeah you did; I was tired after seeing Seth earlier."_

"Oh, you saw Seth? What happened—sorry, it's probably not my business," I say.

"'_Course it is, sweetheart; and I just wanted to talk, I felt the anxiety shit rising, so I called him—he helped calm me down."_

I smile a little.

"Well, I'm happy—glad—you called him, Edward. What brought on the attack, though?"

He sighs.

"_Worrying about you, actually; I haven't been away from you in awhile, and to have you suddenly flying allover the States is a little . . . overwhelming_," he says.

I sigh.

"I'm sorry. I knew I shouldn't have agreed to this—" I start.

He cuts me off.

"_No way, baby girl; you're finally doing what you love—this is just part of it."_ He sighs, sounding tired.

"Listen, I can let you get back to sleep if you want; you sound tired still," I tell him, frowning.

He snorts.

"_Yeah, I don't think so. I've hardly talked to ya since earlier when you sent me that text message—which, by the way, I loved. You should try writing that into something of yours."_

I bite on my top lip.

"Really, you think so? I don't know, I thought it was too . . . corny, I guess, after I reread it when I'd woken up." I chuckle.

"_Don't you _ever _put yourself down, baby girl; I, for one, really fucking enjoy your writing, and I don't think it's corny—but so what if it was? I've read a lot worse, believe me!"_

We both laugh, and then I notice Angela coming towards me.

"Hey," I say to Edward. "I should go. This thing is gonna be taking off in a few minutes."

"_Okay, baby girl; gimme a shout when you can, alright?"_

I nod at nothing.

"Sure, absolutely," I say. "I love you," I add quickly.

"_I love you, too."_

We hang up and Angela sits down next to me; I stole the window seat from her.

"All right," she says, buckling herself in.

I do the same.

"You ready?" she asks.

I nod just as the plane starts its way down the runway.


	11. Chapter 11

**Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.**

**Welcome to the beginning of the drama, babes! :)**

**I'd really love to hear what your ideas are concerning this chapter and what it deals with. Please? :) You'll get a reply and a teaser of an outtake if you give me your ideas! ;) (It CAN be more than ONE idea!)**

* * *

**SONGS TO GO WITH THIS CHAPTER (sorry for the caps lock):**

**Tied Together With A Smile - Taylor Swift**

**Anybody - Jesse McCartney**

**Right Back In The Water - Jesse McCartney**

**You Didn't Have To Walk Away- Mitchell Musso (quiet! *shushes everyone* The lyrics fit)**

* * *

We're in Pittsburgh at a signing today, and then we're off to New York. Pittsburgh isn't nearly as crowded as Los Angeles was, but it's still pretty in-fucking-sane. I try to enjoy it—and normally I do—but today I just can't. Last night, I started to feel . . . down, I guess you could say. I couldn't sleep much, and then Angela was on my ass to get ready immediately—it's becoming too much. A guy who is probably around Edward and my age—mid-twenties—comes up, smiling.

"Hey," he says.

I nod at him with a smile of my own.

"Hi, how are you?" I ask, trying to be polite.

It appears that he's the last one in line; I can't help but thank God that it's almost over, and that we fly to New York soon.

"I'm good—it's great to finally see you person though," he tells me, grinning.

I nod and ask him if he wants anything signed. He shows me his forearm.

"I wanna get it tattooed right after this—have ya ever considered a tat?" he asks as I lean over to sign his upper arm.

I give him a wry glance, and smirk.

"Nah, I'm not much into permanently painting my body—I do enjoy seeing them done though, and pictures." I finish signing.

He nods, grinning.

"I had a one question," he tells me.

"Shoot," I say.

"Would you, maybe, wanna go out sometime? There's a great place where we can eat, and hang out," he says with hope.

I smirk and sit back down.

"Sorry, I really am, but I don't think I'm allowed. My agent would flip her shi—stuff," I say, rolling my eyes.

The dude sighs.

"I see; it was worth a try I guess. Hey, a dude can dream and hope, right?" He smiles.

I grin back.

"Absolutely! Continue to dream and hope, and see what comes to ya. Thanks for coming!"

He waves and I wave back as he leaves.

I see Angela off to the side near the exit, giving me a look of curiosity; I wonder what's on her mind, but I'm too tired to ponder it much further.

* * *

We arrive shortly in New York.

It's past 9pm and I'm exhausted. I eat a little at the hotel restaurant, and then fall into bed right after texting Edward that I landed in New York City safe and sound.

He doesn't reply.

* * *

It's 7am sharp and I feel as though my heart's going to drop out of my chest. Angela is standing next to me, staring at my phone.

_**It's over I guess. I love you, but leave me alone. I sincerely hope ur happy. –e**_

What is this?

I turn to Angela, wide-eyed and worried, bordering on scared.

"I know how you feel Bella, but you have an interview coming up in six hours," she tells me, actually looking sympathetic.

I barely hear her, though; my mind is on calling Edward and getting answers that I deserve.

* * *

In the hotel room that overlooks the Hudson, I put my cell to my ear and wait for him to pick up; I've called three times, he should answer by now. It's Edward though, and just like me, he likes to ignore things.

"_Hello,"_ he says, sounding hoarse and horrible.

I bite my lip.

"_Hello,"_ he says again. _"I know you're there, Bella."_

I flinch a little.

"Uh, hey," I finally say.

"_W-what do you want?"_

"What the fuck is going on?" I ask, ignoring his question.

"_What do you mean? You said—you told me you wanted to focus on your career, and in order to do that, you can't be worrying about my shit and issues," _he tells me.

"I never . . . Edward, I never said that!" I yell.

"_It's fine, B, really," _he lies. _"I understand how important your writing and career is to you."_

I put my hand to my mouth, trying not to cry.

"E-Edward, I never fucking said anything about that! Shit, I need you in my life!"

"_Honestly Bella, stop lying okay? I have Seth, and Emma, so you can go off to do whatever you want. I always supported you in this, so I'll let you go, even if it kills me inside."_

His voice—the tone of it—is almost dead, like he's been drained of any and all emotion.

"Edward—" I start.

He cuts me off.

"_Like I said, I'm gonna let you go—I love you, but apparently that isn't enough."_

"Please, please, I need you," I say, close to tears.

He sighs.

"_I'm sorry, baby. You did this, though."_

"I need you," I whisper.

"_Yeah . . . I need you too. Goodbye B," _he says.

"Wait!" I say quickly.

"_What?"_

I take in a shuddering deep breath.

"I love you, I swear that I do, Edward," I say in a low voice.

"_Yeah . . . okay," _he says, and I don't think he believes me anymore.

He hangs up after that, and I'm left standing near the large window that is showing the river and part of the city. I clutch my phone in my hands and cry.

* * *

I'm getting ready for the interview that is airing live. It's with Alec Volturi, one of the big talk show hosts in New York. I walk out onto the stage in a tight, short black dress that is strapless—I hate anything strapless—and four, maybe five inch dark-red heels. I sit down after shaking his hand, and wave to the cheering crowd; I feel miserable, though.

"So," Alec says. "It's already surfacing on the Net, and I'm sure you've heard about it," he hints.

My stomach rolls with we're about to talk about.

"I think I-I know," I say, trying to smile.

He nods, smirking.

"So, is it true then? Have you and the unnamed guy from the concert broken up?"

I sigh and give the usual answer. . .

* * *

I'm on another talk show right after Alec Volturi's. This time it's Levi Masen, an older guy in his sixties.

"Break-ups are tough, aren't they?" he asks, a fake sympathetic look on his plastic, surgically-enhanced face.

I sigh and swallow.

"Honestly, I lit-literally _just _answered this not an hour ago, man. My personal life is private, and I'd like to keep it that way. I'm—I'm not gonna out the person who might or might not have broken-up with me just 'cause I might be pissed off, hurt, or whatever, you know?" I throw in a tiny laugh. "I—I know that people—fans included—are interested in my life, what I do when I'm not signing or doing interviews, but really, my life is private."

When I get back to the hotel that night, I throw myself onto the bed after changing clothes, getting into my comfy PJs. I cry myself into a restless slumber.


	12. Chapter 12

**Twilight belongs to Stephenie. I cannot fucknig believe that there is a fucking thing on this site for E.L. James' stupid books! GAH! *bangs head on table repeatedly***

* * *

**Wanna join in my craziness that is 10000000% me? Follow me on Twitter under this same name.**

**Tumblr you can follow me at too, but it's not all fluff and shit. Actually, it's kinda depressing. I do post about/reblog Kristen and Rob things, though. :)**

**Have YOU GUYS figured it out yet? ;)**

**I know that alerts for stories haven't been working lately, so I'm sorry if you don't get this/on time. **

* * *

The next two weeks go by in a hazy blur.

We spend all of it in New York, doing interviews nonstop and signings. Rosalie called to let me know that the third and final installment for _Traffic Lights _went to final editing the other day, and would be ready within the next few weeks; I couldn't find it in me to care much, though. I wasn't getting enough rest, and to top everything off, I had an interview today. I'm back at the studios of Alec Volturi, waiting to go on live. The make-up guy is trying his best to cover up the dark circles underneath my eyes, but he's making faces as he dabs liquid cover-up onto my skin.

"Honey," he says, frowning. "How much sleep are you getting?"

I sigh and shrug.

"Not enough, obviously," I mutter.

He clucks his tongue and puts down the makeup-covered sponge. He picks up a cup and hands it to me; I look at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Drink it," he tells me.

"What is it?" I inquire.

"Caffeine. Coke with a splash of a little something-something." He winks.

I manage a smirk for his sake, but I set the cup down.

"Thanks, but I honestly can't stomach anything at the moment," I say quietly.

I haven't been eating much, either; just enough so that my stomach doesn't go crazy, and I don't pass out.

Sam—the make-up dude—sighs.

"Break-ups are hard, I know," he says casually, going back to fixing my face.

I think I flinch, because he curses.

"What—um, h-how do you know?" I ask.

He steps back and I look up at him. He rolls his green eyes at me.

"Please, sweetheart." I bite my lip at the name he calls me. "It's written allover you; in your body language, your face especially. 'Sides, anybody who's been through a freakin' break-up knows the signs, pretty girl," he says.

I nod slightly.

"Oh," I say.

He does a few other things to my face, and then calls it good.

"I think that's about all that I do."

"How . . . how do you get over it?" I ask him as I step into the too-high black stilettos.

He shakes his head.

"You don't, not really. And don't you believin' that nonsense about time heals all wounds, 'cause it don't sweet girl. Sure, it gets better, easier to cope, to deal with, in time; but you're always left with that feeling of the break-up caused. It does help if you meet somebody along the way, though, like I did. They take ya mind off of it for a bit, and if you're lucky, you can eventually give yaself to 'em," he tells me.

* * *

"So, welcome again!" Alec Volturi greets me as I sit down.

I manage a smile and wave.

"Thanks," I say.

We talk about my books for a bit, what I've been up to recently, how the tour is going, and then he brings up my life—of course he does, everybody wants to know. They already know—it's ridiculous.

"Break-ups are hard," he says with faux sympathy.

I sigh.

"Y'know what man," I say, getting fed up. "I'm kinda getting tired of these questions. I didn't come on here to talk about my personal life; I'm here to promote my books, and so that the people who support me can have the chance to see me in person."

In this life, you have to speak this way; it's the only language that these blood-sucking, nosy pricks speak and respond to.

* * *

"Isabella," Angela calls to me as I walk into my hotel room.

"What," I snap as I take off the stupid too-high shoes.

"I cannot believe you did that, is what! Alec Volturi is VERY prominent in Hollywood, and you should be honored to have been selected to be appear on his show! Not everyone is!" she rants.

I laugh sardonically at her, her stupid fucking words.

"Honored, I should be _honored_? Well, guess what then – Alec Volturi can go motherfucking fuck himself for all I care!" I say to her.

Her eyes go wide.

"You have absolutely no idea what you're messing around with here, do you?" she asks. "Well, let me clue you in: I've been in this business a hell of a lot longer than you have, and I can tell you that you're playing with fire, sweetie—fire that you do _not _want to play with! Alec Volturi is very high up in this world, and he can ruin your career if he so chooses!" she hisses the last part at me.

"So what, let him fucking ruin me!" I yell, breaking. "Let him get his punk-ass, childish way! I. Don't. Care," I tell her.

Her eyes burn with fury.

"Sweetheart, let's get one thing straight here, okay? You don't want to ruin your career—which is what you're busy doing—by doing this! I have been trying to help you focus, and you need to focus on your work and NOT on some addict whose life is already over and ruined!" she spits out.

Her words rub me the wrong way; my mind goes back to what Edward had said on the phone two weeks ago. My mind begins to reel, spin.

"What the fuck are you talking about," I say lowly. "Do not speak of him in that way, do you hear me?"

She rolls her hazel eyes.

"Sure, sure—Isabella, I have been trying to help you, as I just said, and in order for me to do that, I need your mind away from that addict, and on your work! It's a good thing that he broke-up with you, although I'm beginning to regret it just a bit, because it seems you're worse now," she says.

I look at her, trying to gauge her, and what she's saying.

My brain is trying to connect the pieces.

"That's the thing that I still don't get," I say. "It's almost like somebody made the decision for him—forced him into breaking up with me."

She smirks.

"Well, you're not stupid, apparently; you're actually catching on—albeit, a little late in the game, yes, but nevertheless you've sort of caught on."

I sit on the bed.

"What . . . I don't understand what you're saying," I tell her.

"Think, Isabella. You yourself said it didn't seem right," she says.

* * *

I think, think, and think until my head hurts.

Angela stays in the room but goes to the table to work on something, and I lie on the bed, trying to work this out in my mind.

Edward wouldn't just break-up with me. . .

His text, his words, made absolutely no sense. . .

"_I've been trying to help you,"_. . .

"_It's a good thing that he broke-up with you, although I'm beginning to regret it just a bit,"_. . .

"_I'm beginning to regret it,"_. . .

_Regret it just a bit . . . _

_Regret it. . ._

"_You're actually catching on,". . ._

"_It's almost like somebody made the decision for him—forced him into breaking up with me,"_. . .

The conversation, the words replay over repeatedly in my mind until, finally. . .

It clicks.

It's a sickening, hurtful, deceit-filled, torturous feeling that fills me up inside, and I feel as though I want to puke from it all.

"Oh, my God," I say aloud.


	13. Chapter 13

**Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer; this plot belongs to ME.**

**Don't kill me, please. Not every relationship is ideal (in fact, I'm pretty sure that's just Hollywood writing), and sometimes, this is what happens before it gets better.**

* * *

"_**So I come to you**_

_**For rest in your heart**_

_**Rest in your home**_

_**It's all you want**_

_**Well you learnt to hate me**_

_**But you still call me baby**_

_**I guess you forgot my name. . .**_

_**Still I stand to save your soul**_

_**Yes I stand to save your soul**_

_**Before you're too far gone**_

_**Before nothing can be done." **Too Far Gone, Sam Bradley_

* * *

"It was _you_," I accuse, standing in front of her.

She keeps her eyes focused on the computer in front of her, typing away at something.

"What, coming up with other ways to try to break things up for me?" I say snidely.

This time she rolls her eyes behind her glasses.

"Please, don't be so immature, Isabella," she says.

I scoff, folding my arms.

"That's hilarious."

She looks up from her laptop, pausing.

"I did it for your own good, Isabella. What was going on was not good for you at all," she tells me.

While she might be correct, I don't say a word.

"What," she says, still looking at me. "Did you really think that I had no idea, no clue that your first book wasn't taken from your personal life? Admittedly, it took me until the second book to realize just how ridiculous it all was (you putting up with everything, and especially taking him back in the end). Oh come on, don't give me that look Isabella; you're better off without him, and you know it." She rolls her eyes again.

I'm seething inside, wanting and ready to smack the shit out of her.

"Do you have _any _idea, any fucking inkling of what you've done? Angela, he's so fucking _fragile_!"

She sighs.

"He'll be fine. Besides, what you two have (and I'm assuming have always had), is a co-dependent relationship, which is not healthy for anyone anywhere. You will thank me for this one day; maybe not tomorrow or even a year from now, but someday you'll see that it was the right thing to do. Now come on; I have your schedule typed up and planned for the next two weeks."

* * *

I have trouble sleeping that night.

My mind is consumed with thoughts of Edward, how he's doing, if he's tried to do anything to himself, or if he's back on drugs. I stare at my phone that is in my hand, contemplating calling his sister. She's probably just going to bitch me out, but I need to know, so I dial her number. It's 3am New York time, so it's only midnight on the West Coast.

It rings, rings, rings until I'm beginning to think that she's either a) ignoring me, or b) already asleep, when she finally picks up.

"_Do ya know what fucking time it is?" _she greets, pissed off.

"Um, hi Em," I whisper.

"_Oh . . . it's you," _she says coldly.

I bite my lip.

"Y-yeah, it's me."

"_Whataya want? Calling to torture him some more?" _

I shake my head.

"N-no! Emma, I didn't do it!"

She laughs.

"_Right right . . . look, I don't know what, exactly, happened—he won't tell me shit other than you broke it off with him—but really Bella, this is a shitty thing to do—just when he's getting better!" _she whisper-yells at me.

I sniffle.

"Emma, I did tell him—I didn't break-up with him, I swear!" I insist.

She huffs.

"_Well, if it wasn't you, then who was it, a ghost?"_

I roll my eyes through tears.

"It was An-Angela, my soon-to-be former agent," I explain.

"_Really," _she says with disbelief. _"Why would your _agent _break you two up?"_

I clear my throat.

"'Cause apparently I'm not focusing enough on my career; look Em, I just called to see how he is. . ." I trail off.

She sighs.

"_I don't really know, to be honest. He's pretty much blocked me from his life as of right now. I've been worrying Emmett so much because I'm worried about him," _she reveals.

Emmett McCarty is her boyfriend; he's a really good guy, who is also hilarious as hell, and looks tough but is really a giant kid, one that gives the best teddy bear hugs—he's amazing for her, even if they are polar opposites on most things.

"If you find anything out, please, please, I'm begging you—" I start, but she cuts me off.

"_I'll let you know."_

* * *

I'm sitting in the hotel room in New York when Angela gets on my last nerve.

"That's it!" I exclaim. "I'm done!"

She looks up in surprise.

"What do you mean, you're done?" she questions, narrowing her eyes.

"I'm going home—back to Washington State!" I tell her. "The next flight out going there, I'm on it."

"You cannot do that, Isabella! You will jeopardize everything that you've worked for!" she tells me.

I give her an incredulous look.

"No, Angela, it will only ruin what _you_ have 'worked' for. I'll be damned if I let you continue to ruin my life further," I tell her.

* * *

"_Hello?" _

I'm sitting in JFK waiting for my flight back to Washington. I decided to call Kyle.

"Hi," I say.

"_Oh . . . uh, did you need something?" _

"I'm coming home—I'm at JFK waiting for the plane," I tell him.

"_You d-don't need to do that," _he tells me quietly; I can hardly hear him. _"Focus on your career, just like you w-wanted."_

"Edward, I never broke-up with you! It was my agent, Angela," I try to explain.

He humorlessly laughs.

"_Right—why you're bothering with lies, I don't know, but there's no need for you to come back though."_

"W-what are you talking about? And I'm not lying!" I insist.

"_I'm saying that there's nothing left for you here," _he says.

My stomach starts to twist.

"Edward, what're you fucking talking about?"

I know that people are watching me, probably even taking videos, but I couldn't care less right now.

"_I-I cheated on you—although I guess that's not technically true, considering you—or whomever you're claiming it was—broke-up with me."_

His words cut me worse than any blade ever could; they slice through my heart, my soul, making both of them bleed with disbelief and pain.

"I-I-I don't believe you," I say quietly.

"_Well, believe it," _he tells me and hangs up.

I sit there with the cell phone in my hand, clutching it like it's a life support-saver. My mind is reeling, trying to comprehend what he just told me.

I don't get on the plane that night.

* * *

"Hello?" I say into my phone.

It's a week later after Edward and I spoke—after what he told me—and I'm still in New York.

"_Bella, you need to get your damn ass back here, now!" _Emma says.

I sigh.

I've been in a funk ever since.

"Why, Em? There's nothing there for me; just ask your brother," I tell her in a dull tone.

"_That's why you need to get back—he's in the hospital."_

My heart picks up speed.

"W-why?"

She's close to tears when she says the next words.

"_He—he fucking overdosed on pills."_


	14. Chapter 14

**Twilight belongs to Stephenie; this plot belongs to me.**

* * *

_**"Well you learnt to hate me**_

_**but you still Call me baby**_

_**I guess you forgot my name...**_

_**Still I stand to save your soul**_

_**Yes I stand to save your soul**_

_**Before you're too far gone**_

_**before nothing can be done." Too Far Gone, Sam Bradley**_

* * *

**Five days later – landing in WA State**

I'm a total fucking mess as I make my way into the airport, searching for Emmett who is supposed to be picking me up, according to Emma. I had booked the first flight I could get, which was five days after Emma called me in New York; five long, torturous days. Finally, I see Emmett standing near the baggage claim area, and I make a move for him, and he ushers me out of the busy Sea-Tac airport and into his parked mini van.

"Oh, um thanks," I say when he takes my bags from me.

He nods and tells me it's no problem, and I hop into the black van to escape the prying eyes of the nosy public. A moment later Emmett gets inside and carefully tries to weave around the traffic.

"Are you hungry, would you like to stop anywhere?" he asks as we finally make it onto the highway.

I shake my head, staring out the windshield.

"No, I'm . . . no thanks," I say quietly.

He nods.

Another thing about Emmett: He knows when not to crack jokes and to take shit seriously—like now.

Emma calls him and asks if he picked me up yet; they don't talk for long, and he relays something to me from her.

"He's at Harborview," Emmett tells me.

I nod.

* * *

We make it to the hospital in just less than three hours. When we finally find a parking space, I hesitate with going inside, but in the end push myself to go. I walk in with Emmett, but I'm on autopilot. Emmett and I go to the floor that he's on, and walk to the waiting area where families go. There, Emma and my longtime friend, Elizabeth, meet us.

Emma hugs me, and I hug Elizabeth, wondering what on Earth she's doing here, but I don't ask.

* * *

"Why am I here?" I ask Emma quietly.

Emmett and Liz went to the cafeteria to eat; Emma and I didn't want to, so we stayed up here.

She sighs, rubbing her hands over her tired face.

"He won't fucking talk to anybody . . . psychiatrists have been in and out to see him multiple times a day, but he never says anything—to the best of my knowledge, anyway. They always leave with defeated faces. He doesn't want anyone in the room, and when he woke-up in the early morning after he was brought in—I stayed the night with him—he cried. I've tried talking to him, but he only gives short answers; most of the time all you get is a glare. I talked to one of his doctors, told them about you (nothing about what happened, just that you're close to him); they suggested seeing if he'll talk to you," she explains tiredly.

"What's Liz doing here?" I ask her, trying to process her information.

She shrugs.

"I really don't know other than she was at the house when he was brought in."

"Um, I don't wanna push you, but are you gonna go in today or no?" Emma asks me.

I sigh, and glance towards the hallway that holds the rooms.

"I should, shouldn't I? The thing, I doubt he wants to see me; at least, that's what our last conversation conveyed," I say bitterly.

"He wants to see you . . . Bella, he cries for you in the night, and every time I'm in there, I can see the questions in his eyes. He wants to ask about you, but he won't because he's too damn stubborn to admit he fucked-up," she tells me.

* * *

At around 5:30pm, I finally gather the courage to go to his room. I hesitate outside of it. I take in shaky deep breaths, telling myself just to do, and I finally go for it. I slowly push open the large white door, glancing inside. After seeing that his eyes are closed, I breathe a sigh of relief and walk in, closing the door gently behind me. I take a seat in one of the chairs near the door, and just watch him. He looks horrible, like his body has taken a serious beating, which is has. His face is sweaty and slightly pale looking; it has lots some of its tan color that I'm so used to seeing. He looks so frail, and I can only imagine what his eyes look like behind his closed lids.

As if he knows that I'm here, his eyes slowly open, and they find me immediately. He stares at me through dull eyes, almost as though he's looking right through me, and not at me. I stare back, hating what I see. Tears fall from his eyes, slowly making their way down his cheeks, and it kills me inside, but I don't make any move to go over and comfort him; it's like I'm frozen with fear and pain.

"I-I didn't think y-you'd come," he says in a hoarse voice, like it hurts him to talk.

I bet it does.

From what I heard from Emma earlier, they pumped his stomach when they got him here.

"I almost didn't," I admit through a whisper.

He nods a little and coughs twice, then winces. I'm kind enough to get up and pour him some water that's in the plastic pitcher on the pull out tray; I hand it to him, but I have to help him drink it because his strength is weak—in more ways than just one. I set the cup back down on the table-tray and go to sit down, but he stops me.

"S-stay," he whispers.

I bite my lip and, against my better judgment, take a seat on the bed at the end of it.

"Why. . ." I try asking, but I wind-up trailing off.

"'Cause I f-fucked up," he whispers.

Knowing that I'm not going to get anything further out of him, I ask what Liz is doing here, considering he hasn't seen her since we were twenty.

He looks at me and then looks away; he's hiding something, that much I can tell in his dull still high-dilated eyes.

"Edward," I say quietly and carefully, almost fearfully.

The feeling that comes with the look he gives me next . . . it fills me with even more pain than I felt five days ago, and I really want to throw-up.

"Say it, out loud," I tell him, trying not to cry. "'Cause I won't believe it 'til I hear you say it."

He blinks and it's then that I realize that he's crying again.

"I-I-I ch-cheated on y-you w-with her," he whispers.

* * *

I'm back in the chair that's near the door; I don't know how much time has passed, but it's been passed in silence. The only talking that's been was when a nurse came in to check on him and take his vitals, then left. Emotions run wild throughout me – fear, pain, rejection, anger, disbelief, anxiety. I rest my arms on my knees that are pulled up to my chest.

"Why," I whisper emotionlessly, but my voice does crack a little.

"'Cause . . . I wanted to hurt you," he whispers softly.

I snort but it gets stuck in my throat.

"Hurt me . . . well congratulations, you got your fuckin' wish," I tell him bitterly.

I get up and walk around a little in the room, knowing that his eyes are on me the whole time. I pull at my hair, and he calls me out on it.

"Stop that, you're gonna hurt yourself," he says.

I stop to look at him finally; I snort.

"I think you've done more than enough for the both of us with that," I snap quietly.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

His voice holds the apology and I can hear regret in it as well, but I don't react to it; it just pisses me off further. I walk to the bed and stand next to it, looking out the window at the cloudy sky.

"You're not crying," he says quietly.

I look down at him.

"You're not crying," he repeats, this time louder.

I shrug.

You go through enough, you either finally break or learn to deal with it, or you just get to the point where it doesn't affect you like it once did.

"You aren't crying," he says for the third time, realization in his voice each time.

"No, but I'm fucking _dying _inside," I hiss at him.

Tears slip down his cheeks, and before I have time to stop myself, I lean in and kiss his forehead, then try to pull back, but he stops me by bringing me closer and down, hugging me. I lose my balance and fall onto him, pressing my palms into the bed to right myself, and stand back up.

* * *

**A week later – the release**

He was released yesterday; apparently he finally told the doctors it was accidental. I'm at their house today, helping Emma out. I'm helping Edward get situated in bed; I shouldn't be here, everything in me tells me to leave, but I ignore it.

"Um, if you need anything else lemme know," I say quietly.

He nods and turns onto his side, facing away from me.

**xXxXxXx**

When I go back upstairs to check on Edward after Emma and Emmett leave, I see that he's still asleep, so I quietly lay down beside him, careful not to touch him or jostle him too much. I pull the blanket up over him that it covers his arms. He has some of his color back, but he still looks fragile. Although I'm laying right beside him, I still feel miles apart from him, and once again every cell in my body tells me to leave, but I don't listen. He's sleeping on his stomach with his head turned toward me—I took my usual spot next to the wall—so I carefully, hesitantly, reach out and gently run my fingers through his hair. He exhales deeply as I do this, and hurts to know that my touch still calms him, when just being near him kills me inside.

I don't know how long it's been, but it's already dark outside. It's October, so I'm not surprised. I haven't moved much, other than continuing to run my fingers through his hair. I'm watching him when he finally wakes up; his eyes find mine and he takes in a shuddering breath that also sound choppy, like he can't breathe right. My fingers still and I bring my hand away from his head, only for him to catch it in his own hand. He keeps it there, our palms pressed together and his fingers locked with mine, and even though I shouldn't reciprocate, I do; my fingers squeeze his. I squeeze, squeeze, squeeze until it hurts and I want to cry. I see tears fall from his eyes to his nose.

"Don't cry," I whisper, even though I'm now crying too. "Don't fucking cry, you promise breaker."

Tears fall from both our eyes.

He turns fully onto his side without ever letting go of my hand. He sits up and pulls on my hand, trying to get me to sit up with him; I do, needing to wipe my eyes because they're burning-stinging. When he does let go of my hand, it's only to wipe my eyes and cheeks, and oddly enough I find myself missing his hand in mine, but I try to push that feeling away, thinking—knowing—that I'm supposed to be angry, pissed off at him.

He tries to pull me in for a hug but I shake my head, not wanting to give in.

He doesn't take it, though, and wraps his arms around me, engulfing me in his scent and warmth. His skin is sleepy-warm still and his dark blue shirt is wrinkled. I finally can't take it anymore and give in, wrapping my arms around his neck. His arms move just beneath my butt and he lifts a little, pulling me closer; I wrap my legs around his waist and lock my ankles together, squeezing him. I sob and shake, and soon my breathing is choppy and shaky, and it's hard to take a breath at all. He squeezes me back, so tight; I'm suffocating inside but I don't care—I need him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry baby," he whispers in my ear.

He rocks us gently from side to side, and I cough a few times, trying to breathe.

"Breathe sweetheart, please," he whispers.

I take in a shuddering breath of air, and what comes back out is a half-exhale, half-wail and sob, creating another round of tears.

When I pull my face away from his neck and look at him, I see that he's crying as well. A part of me doesn't want him to cry, that he created this mess, so he shouldn't get to cry or be allowed to; the other part of me—a much larger part—wishes that he wouldn't be so strong at times like this, and I actually like the fact that he's crying.

"I'm so fucking sorry, baby. I'm sorry," he apologizes again.

I might be twenty-six, and this might be six years later, but it feels as if we somehow went back to six ago. I feel like I'm 20-years-old again, trying to hold onto something that's not good for me, but I'll die without it. I need him so damn much that it scares me.


	15. Chapter 15

'**Twilight' belongs to Stephenie; this plot belongs to me.**

* * *

"**_She finds color in the darkest places_**

_**She finds beauty in the saddest of faces**_

_**For such a clued in, headstrong city girl**_

_**Could've had the world but she's fallen in love in the worst way."**_ _Walk Away – The Script_

* * *

**Two days after – his house**

"I wonder if your place is still swamped," Emma comments as she makes lunch.

I shrug from where I sit at the island, watching her.

"It depends if Angela's said—released—anything yet or not," I tell her.

She hums and asks where her brother is.

"Is he ever gonna get outta there if it's not to piss?" she quips.

I cover my mouth to disguise the giggle.

"I dunno . . ."

"Would you please go tell his royal High-ass to get down here if he wants to eat?"

I nod, but it doesn't escape me that she said 'high-ass' in reference to him. I take the stairs slowly, and then open his door. The fact that he's actually up and doing something surprises me; he's on the computer.

"Oh . . . you're up," I say quietly.

He looks at me and nods.

"Yeah—I got tired of laying around; did enough of that all week." He rolls his eyes.

I nod and tell him that lunch is almost ready.

"I'm not hungry," he says.

I bite my lip. "You need—you should eat. When was the last time you ate something? Actual food."

He sighs, leaning back in his desk chair.

"I don't wanna eat," he says quietly, closing his eyes.

_Wow, something truthful for once, _I quip to myself.

I clear my throat, getting ready to go back downstairs.

"Well, you know the kitchen is," I say and turn away.

When I get to the stairs, he calls my name, making me pause. Slowly, I turn around and go back to his room to see what he wants.

"Yeah," I say, popping my head back in.

His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

"I . . . I guess I'll try to eat something," he finally says.

I nod and wait out in the hallway for him. Why, I don't know; I guess it's because it's what I've always done—wait for him. He comes out after shutting his door, and we walk down the stairs one at a time together. I don't do anything when he reaches out and takes hold of my hand—I don't stop him nor do I lock my fingers with his. When we reach the landing I release my hand to go sit down, and he sits next to me; Emma gives me a look of surprise but doesn't say anything.

"Here," she says, giving me a plate of Mac 'n' Cheese.

I thank her and I look at Edward.

"Um, I'll get you some," I mumble.

"Psh, what, are his hands broken?" Emma snips.

I glare at her.

"Emma," I say with warning.

She rolls her eyes.

I know why she's acting this way; she's hurt and pissed, just like I am.

"It's fine, ba—B; I can get it," Edward says quietly.

My stomach twists at the name that he caught himself using; _baby_. Suddenly, I'm not so hungry either. I push the food around on the plate and nibble at it. Emma grabs a second plate before I realize how much time has passed, and Edward is still working on his first serving. When I can't stomach any more of the food—and being at the island—I stand up to take my plate to the trash.

"I'll take care of it," Emma says.

"Just save it for later, please?" I ask.

She nods and I take the stairs two at a time, and then walk quickly to the guest bedroom where I've been staying.

* * *

**One week later – B's house**

It's been almost two weeks since Edward was in the hospital.

Against all better judgment, I offered for him to come back to my—I guess it's still _our_—house, since I know that Emma wants time alone. We got back here late last night, and Edward crashed out almost immediately. I stayed on the couch, letting him have the bed.

**(Flashback) – Last night**

_I just got Edward situated in bed, and I grabbed some clothes out of the dresser that holds my pajamas. I went into the bathroom and changed quickly, then asked if he needed anything else; he shook his head._

"_You're not . . . you're not gonna stay in here?" he asked, frowning._

_I shook my head._

"_I uh, I've got some work I gotta do—I don't wanna keep you up," I said._

_He nodded, said goodnight, and I shut the door behind me._

**(End flashback) – Present**

I'm pretty sure that he knew I was lying, because the look on his face part sadness, and part disbelief. After spending so much time around him at Emma's house, I need some time away from him—even if it's just a room or two apart. Glancing at my phone, I see that it's 11:30am; I sigh and get up to stretch. I had a hard time falling asleep, not doing so until well into 7am. A part of me wonders if Edward is up yet; he's been sleeping a lot lately since he got back from the hospital. My thoughts are answered when the bedroom door opens and out walks a still half-asleep Edward. My eyes follow him at he walks to the couch and sits down; he only has on a pair of boxers, nothing else. With my legs pulled up to my chest, I keep my eyes trained anywhere but at him.

"How'd the work go?" he asks, breaking the suffocating silence.

I shrug.

"Umm, it went alright; not much left to do," I say quietly, still keeping my gaze averted.

He doesn't respond, and I don't push conversation.

It would most likely only lead to an argument, anyway.

* * *

"Umm, ar-are you gonna sleep in the bed tonight?" he asks quietly.

It's 10:30pm, and I'm exhausted; both mentally—emotionally—and physically. I hadn't exactly planned on sleeping in the room tonight, but from the look of uncertainty and forlornness on Edward's face, I can't find it in myself to say no, even though it kills me inside when I'm near him.

"Uh, sure," I answer.

* * *

Edward slips into the bed after I do, and I reach over to turn out the light. I stay still, as does he, and just listen to the silence; I'm afraid to even exhale too loudly, it's that tense in here.

_It's his fault, he did this_, I remind myself.

Yet for some reason, I still blame myself partly for what happened; it's as if _I'm _the one who cheated and then overdosed, and not him.

I turn onto my side, facing away from him, and curl into a ball—as though that might somehow protect me from everything going on.

"Baby," he whispers.

I flinch at his tone; it's uncertainty again, but there's longing in it.

"H-hmm," I say quietly.

He doesn't reply; instead, I feel his fingers skim my forearm, running them up and down it slowly. I want to move away from him; his touch burns me, but I can't find it in me to move even an inch.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

His mouth right there, near my ear—so close that his breath tickles-touches it.

His apology is loaded.

What is he sorry for, though?

For cheating, for overdosing, for believing Angela's lie, maybe? I want to ask him, but I can't—my voice gets stuck in my throat.

So, I continue to let him touch me, because it's what he needs. He needs this from me, and he needs me to his whispered apologies in the tone of a tortured soul who has lost his way again—or maybe he never found it at all. I sacrifice everything because he needs me, needs this, even though it makes my stomach roll and twist, and do flip-flops when he touches me; and when his words of confession of cheating enter my mind nearly every time he speaks and looks at me, I feel like I'm going to throw-up. And I'll let him think that maybe I've forgiven him, but even I don't think that he's stupid enough to believe I forgive that easily—at least not anymore.

I could have had the world but I've fallen in love in the worst way.


	16. Chapter 16

"'_Cause when you're in too deep you wake up when it's too late,_

_You've fallen in love in the worst way,_

_And if you don't go now then you'll stay_

'_Cause I'll never let you leave, never let you breathe,_

'_Cause if you're looking for heaven, baby it sure as hell ain't me." Walk Away, The Script_

* * *

**All rights belong to their rightful owners.**

* * *

**Thursday, November 1 – Edward/Emma's house**

It's been tense, really tense.

Edward's been back for almost a month now, and it's still weird—hard—to be around him. I've tried distancing myself (doing my own thing), but it always somehow leads me back to being around him. He moved back in during the last week of October; I did it as more of a favor to Emma than anything else. The final book for _Traffic Lights _is being finished up in final editing right now, and then it goes to the publishers.

I'm sitting outside on the back porch of Emma's place—Edward's old house—and just enjoying the breeze. It's cold out, considering it's November, and it's the ocean, but the sky is beautiful; amazing colors of oranges, pinks, purples and blues mix together in the soft glow of the setting sun. I look out at the water and watch as the waves roll onto the shore and then back, repeating the same process. I take a sip of coke and then hear someone behind me; I think it's Edward until I hear them speak.

"Hey."

No, it's Elizabeth; I immediately stiffen as she sits down next to me. What is she doing here?

"Hi," I say shortly.

With her hands clasped together in front of her, she looks up at the sky.

"Pretty night," she says.

I say nothing.

"I uh . . . I suppose you're wondering what I'm doing here, right?" she guesses, looking at me.

Again, I don't answer her; she's never been stupid, and she'll talk if she really wants to—Liz is one of those people who enjoys talking.

"I get it, you're upset, I completely do," she starts. "I would be too; but you, you have to understand something – I didn't do anything," she says calmly, but even I can hear the urgency in her voice.

I side-glance her, not believing a word she just said.

"Right," I say sarcastically.

She huffs in response.

"I'm telling the truth Bell, _I _didn't do shit!"

She takes me by surprise by swearing; she's never been one to foully speak, and if she does, it's for a reason—like emphasis.

"So, what're you saying, then?" I ask, not really wanting to know.

She sighs and runs a hand through her dark blonde hair.

"He told you that he cheated with me, right?"

I flinch-wince, and I guess that's enough for her because she nods.

"Yeah, well, I don't know exactly what he told you, but all he did was kiss me—and I suppose that yeah, technically that's cheating, because he did come onto me; I told him no, and to go fuck himself when he kissed me. I also said that he never changed one bit, even with four years going by," she tells me.

I'm quiet as I let her words sink in.

"Why should I believe you?" I say quietly.

"I—look at me, please?" she asks.

I do; I turn my head and she looks me right in the eye.

"Have I _ever _done anything to you, Bell?" she asks.

Well, I can think of one time, but that was high school, and we were both wrong on many levels, so I shake my head.

"Right," she says. "And I would not do _this_, especially with somebody like him! He . . . Bell, he means everything to you, and I watched while you went through hell as he stayed away for almost four years—selfishly, I might add. I watched the process throughout high school happen (you've always known my opinion on that, your relationship); why, why in the world would I fuck-up what you love, can hardly by without?"

"Besides," she continues. "I met someone two months ago—somebody who treats me well—unlike James did."

She went through a similar situation with an ex of hers, James; only with him, his threats of suicide were real; he actually committed the act. It's taken her years to get over it, and it happened when we were seventeen.

I nod, suddenly feeling anger setting in.

"I-I'm happy for you," I whisper. "Who is he?"

"His name's Jas, as in Jasper," she says, and she smiles.

I purse my lips.

Odd name for a dude, but okay.

"And he treats you right?" I ask.

She nods.

"Yes, so good; we met through a coworker last year, and became friends."

I nod.

"Does he know . . . anything?" I ask.

She understands what I'm getting at.

She sighs.

"Um, well, he knows that I went through something when I was in my teens. I told him that somebody extremely close to me took himself away from me, and he you know what he told me?" she asks.

I raise my eyebrows in question.

"Well first, he hugged me, and then told me that that's like the ultimate 'fuck you'. That it's the last thing to do to someone, but it's also the worst because they don't realize that it's gonna tear people up," she tells me.

I bite my lip and look out at the dark water.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "It is the ultimate fuck you—it sounds like he understands, Liz."

She nods.

"He does, and he's willing to take it slow. Honestly Bells, I want him, his help to finally move on. It's been almost eight years, you know? I don't want to spend forever hanging onto somebody who took himself away."

It's quiet for a bit after that.

We both stare out at the water, and the sky is almost dark now.

"You know I love you, right?" she says out of nowhere.

I look at her, and nod.

"I love you, too, Lizzie."

* * *

Liz left a little bit ago, and I go inside after spending more time out there, thinking. The anger comes back as soon as I set eyes on Edward, and hear his voice.

"How's Liz?" he asks quietly from the island.

I'm on the other side of it, gripping its edges so that I don't reach out and do something to him.

"Oh, um, she's fine," I say.

"What'd she say?" he asks, eating a sandwich.

I tilt my head to the side a little.

A part of me wonders if he's worried that she might've told me the truth; that he led me to believe more occurred than it really did.

"Why, Edward?" I ask, ignoring his question.

"Why what?"

"Why'd you lie about what happened?"

"I didn't," he says, looking confused.

I scoff.

"Yeah, no, all you told me was that you cheated on me—with Liz," I say. "But all it was, was a fucking kiss, wasn't it? Which she pushed you away afterwards, told you no."

The words spill from my mouth, but I don't hold back.

He looks nauseas.

"You . . . You made me think something else—something more—went on! Did it? Is she the one lying now? 'Cause really, that's not her style," I say, eerily calm, even to my own ears.

He swallows and looks like he wants to throw-up the food he just ate; he also looks to the stairs, and then to the backdoor.

"Don't even think about it," I say, rolling my eyes. "It's a cop-out, a way to run from the truth, the shit you need to deal with!"

His eyes dart from me to the backdoor again, and I reach into the pocket of my jeans where I have a small, white pill; I pull it out and hold it up for him to see.

"Want it?" I ask. "Go ahead; throw everything away—oh wait, you already almost did that last month!"

His brown eyes are locked on the pill that sits in between my finger and thumb; he wants it, I can tell, but he's also fighting it.

"Take it," I taunt. "Why won't you?"

I walk over to him to stand right in front of him, and look up into his face; he gulps.

"Go ahead, I'm offering it to you. Why won't you take it? Shit, maybe it'll finally be enough to knock your ass into a fucking coma, and hell, maybe even death!" I say. "'Cause after all, that's what you're after isn't it, to finally be able to tell me 'fuck you' in a big way?" I smile sarcastically.

He doesn't answer; he's too busy swallowing and trying to stop visible tears from falling.

"Oh, maybe _I _should take this then," I say, nodding in faux realization. His eyes open wide, alarmed. "Maybe I'll finally see what you see when you're high, what the big rush of it all is."

He shakes his head frantically.

"D-don't you fucking dare," he says his voice full of threat.

I smirk, because it's too bad for him that his threats don't work on me anymore, and neither does his begging-pleading.

"Why not." I glare at him. "What, you're allowed to fuck yourself up, and almost kill yourself in the process, but I'm supposed to just sit back and take it, 'cause it's what I've always done?" My voice has risen in volume, and he flinches.

"Why do you wanna take yourself away from me so badly?" he asks through gritted teeth.

I snort and set the non-toxic pill down on the island. It's actually just a pill made out of sugar; I got it from Emmett the other day as a joke.

"Y'know what," I say, backing away. "You're hilarious. You talk about _me _going away, taking myself from you and leaving, when all you do is stuff your system with drugs, and almost die? So guess what – you take that fucking thing," I say, pointing to the fake pill. "And guess what, I promise you that I'm done."

His eyes burn into mine, daring me.

"You've said that before and yet here you are still," he says confidently, but his eyes tell a different story. "You said that all through school, too."

I fold my arms and dig my nails into my skin.

"Try me; go ahead and take it, and I _promise _you—on my books, on my poetry and writing—that I will be gone for _good_."

I walk to the backdoor, and then turn back around; he watches my every move.

"But hey, it's your choice. We all have choices, even if it kills us inside to make them, we still have them." I turn and walk outside.


	17. Chapter 17

"_I know I'd never let you walk away_

_So why do I push you 'til you break_

_And why are you always on the verge of goodbye_

_Before I'll show you how I really feel inside?" _Why, Jason Aldean

* * *

**All rights belong to their rightful owners. ;)**

**Y'know how I keep promising HEA? Well, keep repeating to yourself, because it's gonna happen. ;) **

**I just have one thing to say – Life isn't pretty; it's not sparkly unicorns and rainbows. It's suffering, pain, stress, and sometimes loss—and somewhere in middle of it all, happiness occurs. Sometimes people do horrible shit (like cheating), and sometimes more often than not, they lie because they it's what's best, or some are just cruel like that. I've been through what Bella goes through during this story; if you don't like it, then I understand. **

* * *

**Later in the night – his room**

I'm in his room with him, but he's on the bed and I'm sitting against the locked door. My stomach is still twisting and turning from an hour and a half ago; it wasn't walking away that made me sick, it was the words I'd said to him, and the worst part is, I don't regret them. I've always held my tongue—held back from screaming at Edward—because I was always afraid that he would finally do something that would send him off the deep end, but tonight was different.

I feel his eyes on me, but I can't bring myself to meet his gaze.

I shouldn't feel guilty, I know that I shouldn't, but I still do.

"Why didn't you tell me the truth?" I ask quietly.

I finally get the courage to look at him, and I see that he's looking anywhere but at me now.

"It's—it's dumb," he whispers.

I roll my eyes and let my head fall against the door.

"It can't be any worse than leading me to believe something 'more' happened," I tell him tiredly.

He's quiet for a moment, but eventually speaks.

"I . . . I guess I jus' wanted a way for you to leave without fucking things up further." He stares at the wall ahead.

My head snaps up off the door, and I stare at him incredulously.

"That makes . . . absolutely no sense," I say, narrowing my eyes.

He sighs.

"I wanted to stop hurting you," he says quietly. "Plus, I was hurt by what had happened—I know I know, it wasn't you, it was Angela."

"Ookay. . ." I trail off. "Why'd you OD?"

It's several moments before he answers.

"Because I realized that I was wrong."

"What," I snort. "You can't handle not being right?"

He shakes his head and picks at something on his comforter.

"No, it's not that. I just . . . I realized how wrong I was to believe what wasn't true; to think that you'd say something like that, especially over text. Also 'cause I-I kissed Liz, and when that set in—the reality of what I'd done, that I fucking _cheated_ and pushed it into your face—I-I freaked out. So, I went out to Port Angeles, and got the usual," he says.

"But, why; what—I still don't get it," I say quietly.

He clears his throat once.

"I wanted to finally let you be free, to stop all of the shit that's gone on since high school, and to let you just live your life like you should," he tells me in a hoarse voice.

His words hit me hard.

It's as though he actually wanted to succeed, and that feels like a kick to the heart and stomach; I can't take it, and finally allow the tears to fall.

"Shit," I hear him mutter.

And before I know it he's kneeling in front of me, trying to remove my death-like grip on my hair; I shake my head.

"No, no, f-f-fuck no," I mumble repeatedly.

He finally gets my fingers to release my hair, I look up at him, and I can tell that he's on the verge of crying-breaking; my hand goes to the back of his head, and I thread my fingers through his hair.

"Why, oh God, why," I cry.

I pull at his hair and he doesn't try to stop me.

"You h-honestly thought th-that by l-l-leaving me, dying, it would make me hurt less?" I yank his hair tighter, crying.

"How stupid can you possibly be," I ask.

He leans closer to me and I shake my head, not able to deal with this, and feeling like I'm going to explode.

"Stop—please, please, stop," he whispers, his right hand resting on my neck.

It's then that I realize that we're both close to panic, an anxiety attack.

I release his hair and pull him to me, finally falling apart from tonight. He falls easily into me, and eventually we resituate ourselves so that it's me who is sitting on his lap, and not him on mine. We sit like this for I don't know how long; we both cling to each other, and even though he's right here, the anxiety doesn't dissipate at all. He kisses my forehead.

* * *

"C'mon, let's move to the bed; my ass and feet're going numb," he says against my forehead.

I don't fight him or say anything as we stand up and he pulls me to the bed after shutting off the light; the blue light from the Christmas lights that are still here in his old room glow in the otherwise dark room. He climbs onto the bed first, taking the side near the wall for a change, and I immediately follow, as if I'm on autopilot. He lays his right arm out and then wraps it around me from underneath, and wraps his other arm around me, caging me in.

* * *

Minutes pass which feel like a lifetime.

All the while, he holds me to him; I can't stop the tears, the body-shaking sobs that wrack my body and the bed, and I'm sure his as well. Neither of us says anything though; he just lets me cry—occasionally he whispers soothing words in my ear.

"Breathe baby," he whispers.

I choke on a sob and try to move into him more, getting impossibly closer; he squeezes me so tight, so good.

"T-tighter," I choke-whisper.

He complies, squeezing tighter until it feels as though the circulation in my arms is going to be cut off; I don't care though, because I need this; he always gets what he wants from me, I always give into his tempting ways. For once, I need this to be about me and not him.

"I'm sorry that I hurt you all the time," he whispers.

It's the middle of the night, and we haven't moved from the bed.

His apologies are sweet, but they also torture and kill every time they're spoken. They kill because although I know that he's sorry (and he truly is, I never doubt him when he apologizes, never have), it hurts and I die a little each time because he and the situations never change; they continue with the same story, the same middle and ending, the same fucking dialogue each time. Something has to change eventually, because I'm scared that one day, he's going to succeed in killing himself—whether that's intentional or not next time is up to him, and I don't want to find out, but I also can't bring myself to leave him for good; just the notion of saying goodbye tears me up inside. I spent time away from him back in junior year of high school, twice; the first time was easy, I was pretty pissed off at him. The second time, all I did was wish for him to return—actually, the second time _he _walked away from _me_, and it hurt like hell. People have told me all along that he's not good for me, that I should just let go and move on, forget about him; but I'm not a computer, I can't just delete somebody from my life; but I still wonder if those people have ever had someone like Edward; somebody who they love with all their heart, mind and soul, so much that it consumes their every thought and all their dreams.

"I-I . . . I c-can't k-keep doing this," I whisper.

I'm facing him now, with my face in his black t-shirt covered chest. I feel him tense at my words, but he sighs.

"I know," he whispers.

I'm about to say something when he continues, so I shut up and just listen.

"And you shouldn't keep getting hurt. As much as it would kill me to do, I'd let you go so you wouldn't continue to hurt yourself . . . eventually maybe kill yourself," he says quietly.

His words cause another round of tears, and I shake my head, gripping the back of shirt in my hands, pulling myself closer; he squeezes me so good; but little does he know (or maybe he does know), I'm already killing myself; hell, I'm already so far gone, it would just completely end me to stop now.

In fact, I'm surprised it hasn't completely ended me yet.


	18. Chapter 18

**All things belong to their rightful owners.**

* * *

**Friday, November 17 – outside on his back porch**

I'm sitting on the top step of Edward's back porch, silently and mindlessly staring at the waves crashing onto the shore. My stomach is sick with twists, flips, and turns of heartache and anxiety, and the only person who can take it all away is the one who caused it.

I glance over at Emma and Edward, who are on the swing that sits a few feet away from the steps; she keeps looking over at me, and I know that she's worried.

"Is she OK?" she asks, worried.

Edward lets out a long sigh, and in my peripheral vision, I see him stand up.

"She's sad Em; it doesn't take a genius to figure that out," he says, and he's not being mean; it's just a statement.

It's quiet for a moment, and then, "You mean depressed?"

_Yeah, no shit it's depression, _I quip to myself.

Edward nods.

"Yeah . . . I wish I could take it away—help her in some way."

_Yeah, so I do._

Emma snorts.

"Yeah well, you're the one who brought this round of it on, so that's pretty much outta the fucking question."

"I know," he snaps. "I just. . ." His voice is quiet, low, again. "That's what hurts the most, the worst part of it."

I try to tune them out again, instead focusing on the water and dark sky again. I need someone, somebody just to hold me. I hug my knees to my chest as best I can, trying to hold in the tears, and tug the too big black hoodie around myself that Edward gave me. I guess I'm not doing a good enough job because Edward is suddenly behind me, wrapping me in his arms; he always seems to know what I need, even when I don't voice it. I manage to stand up and turn around, and reposition myself so that I'm straddling his lap, and I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms go around his neck, clinging on without choking him. It's definitely not the most comfortable position, but fuck, I need this, and he's not complaining—he never does. I'm twenty-fucking-seven, but it all feels like too much; my mind drifts back to a fight that occurred during May right before the summer that senior year started.

I hide my face in Edward's neck-shoulder as the fight from before replays in my head.

* * *

**(Flashback) – Her house**

"You're not going," my dad said with finality.

I bit my lip and huffed, which earned me a disapproving look.

"Enough with the attitude or you're grounded, young lady!"

I bit back a snappy remark and mentally rolled my eyes.

"I . . . I wanna go though," I said quietly, staring down at the floor.

He shook his head.

"Absolutely not; he's no good for you, but you don't see that. No, you just continue letting him make you depressed—what, you think I don't know that you're depressed? Don't think I don't see how you walk around the house like a freaking zombie when he starts his shit Isabella, 'cause I do. I ain't blind kid, and I'm not stupid; neither are you, but you're making stupid choices," he told me.

I tried to hold back the tears that wanted to fall.

"I . . . he loves me—I love him Dad," I whispered.

He shook his head.

"Nuh uh, that isn't love, Bella; it's more like . . . what's the word I'm looking for? Addiction—it's like an addiction, and guess what; we gonna cut you from your addiction, starting now; over my dead fucking body will you continue to see that kid Isabella!"

I let the tears fall freely after he left my room, not before telling me that I was grounded though.

**(End flashback)**

* * *

I ignored Edward for three weeks after it—the hardest three fucking weeks of my damn life. Nobody realized—maybe they didn't care to—that they were taking away the only person worth not giving up for. My dad was vehement on me not seeing or having any contact with Edward, and I stayed away for three weeks. Those few weeks were hell; every time I saw Edward, he would try to talk to me, asking me why I was ignoring his calls. I told him that I wasn't allowed to see him anymore.

"_Fuck what other people think!" _he'd told me.

I turned eighteen that September, and when I went back to hanging out with him, my dad pretty much just gave up on me, saying that I was 18-years-old, an adult, and could legally make my own choices. I cried when he told me that, and Edward had a shit fit when he found out.

I'm brought out of my thoughts when I feel Edward rub my shoulders.

"What'cha thinking 'bout, Mama?" he asks quietly.

When I don't answer, he lifts my head from the crook of his neck, and tries to gauge my thoughts.

"Tell me," he murmurs. "Please."

I bite my lip and he frowns but doesn't say anything.

"Jus' the fight that happened the summer before senior year started," I mumble.

He nods in realization and his hands rub up and down my back soothingly.

* * *

**Saturday, November 18 – Edward's back porch – party time**

I'm sitting on the second step of the porch, watching the bonfire party that Emma arranged in lieu of her thinking I needed some 'cheering up'. I stuff my hands into the pockets of the black hoodie that is Edward's—the same one I've been wearing for two days—and it causes the hood of it to pull down more on my head. Edward is hanging out with Jessica, a girl we both knew in school; somebody whom he has history with, but Jess is a nice girl and I'm not worried; she's happily married to Michael Newton—or his money I should say. She wouldn't do anything to jeopardize losing the massive bank account and endless credit card he set up for her. Whatever, it works for them; she gets what she wants—a daughter—and he gets whatever he wanted out of it. Jess waves at me and all I can do is offer a small smile back; it hurts even to smile, and I hate it. She frowns a little and asks Edward a question that causes him to look at me, and he too frowns. She says something and they both nod, and then Edward makes his way over to me, stopping in front of me.

"'Sup—what's going on?" he asks, looking down at me.

I shrug.

"Just watching the bonfire going on—why?"

He sighs.

"You jus' look lonely is all. Hey, come with me; come say hi to Jess, she's worried about you—actually, so am I," he says.

I smile for his sake.

"Don't worry about me, and go have fun."

He's not stupid though, so he's not fooled by my forced smile and cheeriness.

"Yeah, right; telling me not to worry is like telling you not to upset, hurt, and worried sick when an episode occurs." He snorts.

I manage to hold back the flinch-wince that is almost automatic to his words.

"Do whatever you want," I say, trying to reassure him. "I don't wanna hold you back."

"Hold me back?" He stares at me incredulously. "You're insane!"

I roll my eyes.

"Thanks for the clarification on that," I say sarcastically. "I think I've heard that somewhere before, though."

He smirks, climbs the steps, and then sits down so that he's behind me, and I'm between his legs with my back against him. We stay like this for a bit, unmoving, until I feel him get closer, and he kisses the back of my neck; I shiver involuntarily.

"You wanna go inside for a bit?" he asks into my hair.

I nod without thinking, and he helps me up.

* * *

We're lying in his bed.

The window is open and I can hear the party still going on in full swing. Edward rolls us over—I was lying on top of him—and hovers above me, smirking. I look at him curiously.

"What?" I ask.

He doesn't answer with words, but he leans down and presses a soft kiss to my collarbone. He travels to both sides of my neck, pressing feather light kisses to my skin; I can't help the giggle that escapes when he gets to underneath my ear—I've always been ticklish there for some reason. I feel him smirk against my skin, and then he does the unthinkable: He reaches down and fucking tickles me at my sides. I squeal and squirm underneath him, and try to get hold of his hands, but that only lets him succeed in grabbing mine and pinning them above my head.

In just a short time, I've finally felt _happy _again; carefree and happy.

Which leads me to asking him to do the one thing we haven't in so long.

"Love me?" I say through a whisper, uncertainty lacing it.

They're words that haven't dared been spoken in a while, but are always on my mind.

He looks me in the eye, once again gauging me.

"Um—are—are you s-sure?" he asks, his own uncertainty showing.

I nod.

And he does finally.

He loves me like I've wanted ever since we reconnected almost three years ago; he loves me thoroughly.

He loves me even though the window is open and the door is unlocked.

He loves me deeply.

Sometimes slow and sometimes hard.

His whispered words fill my ears and make my heart soar like a shooting star.

Our grunts, groans, and moans combine and fill the room.

And this is what I've always meant by 'he's the best and worst thing to ever happen to me'.


	19. Chapter 19

"**If only I don't bend and break**

**I'll meet you on the other side**

**I'll meet you in the light**

**If only I don't suffocate**

**I'll meet you in the morning when you wake." **– Bend And Break, Keane

* * *

**All things belong to their rightful owners.**

* * *

When I wake-up the next morning, the night comes rushing back.

I remember begging him to love me, and he did finally.

And suddenly, I feel weird, almost awkward.

I get up and use the bathroom after changing back into my clothes—sans Edward's black hoodie—and then make my way downstairs.

Emma is already down there eating, and raises her eyebrows when she sees me.

"Just . . . shut it," I mutter, going straight to the fridge.

I pull out a diet coke and pop it open, and sip it; all the while, I can feel Emma's eyes on me.

"Are you OK?" she asks quietly.

I'm sitting at the other end of the island, still nursing the diet coke; I shrug.

"Why?" I ask.

She rolls her eyes.

"'Cause I'm sure I could guess what happened after you two disappeared last night."

I don't answer her, and look up just in time to see Edward make his debut into the kitchen in nothing but boxer shorts.

He looks at me hesitantly.

"You alright?" he asks.

I nod and focus back on the can of coke.

He goes over to the fridge and pulls something out, then closes it. He then comes behind me and cages me in; I have to work hard so that I don't tense up at his nearness.

"How're you really?" he whispers into my ear.

I meet Emma's gaze as I answer.

"I'm fine, honestly."

He hugs me from behind for a moment, and then says that he's going to shower. Emma waits until he's upstairs and we hear the bathroom door shut to start into me.

"He doesn't deserve to be lied to," she says pointedly.

"I wasn't lying."

She rolls her eyes.

"You're either not fine, or you're not going to be, which is gonna freak him the fuck out, B, you know that."

* * *

_Lies only bring trouble in the end,_

_And make us sick to our stomachs, _

_But they also make us feel better_

_When it's exactly what we want to hear. . ._

* * *

After telling Edward that I need to go home for a bit to grab a few items, I drive home with my mind in a messy haze. I keep thinking about last night, and I'm honestly not sure how to feel. Thoughts of it being too soon, and we both weren't ready, and the worst one: It's only going to bring trouble later on . . . all of it flutters through my mind as I pull up to my house and go inside. Luckily, the media isn't around right now.

.

.

.

* * *

_A lie, lies, more lies. . ._

_They only bring trouble._

_One, two, three more times,_

_And I'll be just like you. . ._

* * *

When nighttime comes and I'm still not on my way back to his house, Edward calls, worried. I tell him that I would rather spend the night at my house; it's easier since I'm already here.

"_Oh, okay," _he says, surprised. _"Do you want me to drive over?"_

I bite my lip as I readjust the towel that's holding my wet hair in place.

"_B, are you there?"_

I put the phone back to my ear, apologizing.

"Sorry, I was taking my hair down from the towel," I explain.

I feel as though I'm apologizing for much more than just setting the phone down for a moment.

He chuckles.

"_I gotcha, it's fine. So, should I come over?"_

I'm not stupid; I can hear the hope in his voice.

"I'd prefer to just be by myself tonight," I say softly, and then add, "If that's OK?"

It's quiet for a moment, and then. . .

"_Yeah, sure, sweetheart. But um, are you sure you're okay?"_

_No_, I think to myself.

"Yeah, I'm sure; I just have a headache is all," I reply.

"_Alright . . . you'd tell me if it had anything to do with . . . with last night, right? 'Cause I—I liked it—I've missed you in that way, but . . . I don't want you to be uncomfortable, y'know?"_

His insecurity mirrors my own, and it kills me to lie, but I still do it.

"'Course I would," I say.

_I'm not you in that way, _I silently add.

The sad—horrible—part of it all is that he buys every word I just said, and we hang-up shortly after. I unplug the house phone and put my cell on silent. I take my laptop out when I get into my room, and put on some music. Maroon 5 fills my ears, and it takes me back to being that age, seventeen and eighteen, and all the shit that went on.

* * *

**Midnight – her house**

It's late, and I've been surfing the internet for hours, and trying to write, but nothing comes. I turned off the light thirty minutes ago, but I still can't manage to fall asleep. When I can't take it anymore, I get up and go into the bathroom where I keep certain medicine at—like my anxiety and other stuff for pain. I take out the Tylenol and Valium—Edward would never touch Valium, always saying that it never works, so I keep it in here because I know he won't ever touch it. I pop one of the blue pills along with four 500mlg pills of Tylenol, swallow them with some tap water, and then shut out the light.

I climb back into bed after grabbing my iTouch and putting in the earphones; I scroll through songs until I come to one.

_Not Strong Enough _by Apocalyptica plays on repeat, and I'm hit with dozens of emotions all at once.

_I am him—I'm turned into Edward, _I cry to myself.

Popping pills is something that I did in high school on and off, trying to deal with everything going on; it took the edge off the anxiety and allowed me to get some sleep.

* * *

When I get up to pee at around 3am, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and stare at myself after flushing the toilet. My own reflection scares me, because my eyes are incredibly dilated even the harsh light of the room; there's almost no green to them right now. I'm dizzy as I lean on the counter for support, and the meds are definitely doing their job; I feel light, floaty, like I'm on a cloud. However, I also feel sick, and like I might cry. Staring at myself in the mirror, I see myself for what I am: A hypocrite.

_You're a hypocrite_, my conscious laughs.

And it's right, I am a hypocrite.

I yell, swear, and bitch Edward out because of what he does, with how he's tearing everyone apart with the constant drug usage, but am I really any better? I don't think I ever have been, if I'm being honest with myself; I've always taken _something _to try to calm my nerves, and with that have always given the age-old excuse '_it takes the edge off and helps me deal_', when in reality it makes things so much worse. Still, a part of me can't help but think that _he _caused this to happen; that I wouldn't be this way if it weren't for him, and maybe that's true.

Without giving it a second thought, I grab the nearest razor that's on the counter and sit down on the toilet, and press the cool metal to my skin; I slowly slide it across the skin of my thigh, feeling the relieving feel of the sting from the blade. I pull it away after a moment and look; the slice isn't deep by any means, but it's enough to make it drip blood. I immediately clean up the blood and keep a washcloth pressed against it as I make my way back into bed, reveling in the relief that is brought upon from a taboo and frowned at action. I also feel the guilt beginning to settle in, the feeling of regret from slicing my own skin, and not being able to take it back.

_I jus' wanted it to stop, stop hurting, _I silently cry.


	20. Chapter 20

"**I don't know your face no more**

**Or feel your touch that I adore**

**I don't know your face no more**

**It's just a place I'm looking for**

**We might as well be strangers in another town**

**We might as well be living in a different world**

**We might as well be**

**We might as well be**

**We might as well be**

…

**I don't know your thoughts these days**

**We're strangers in an empty space**

**I don't understand your heart**

**It's easier to be apart." **– We Might As Well Be Strangers, Keane

* * *

**All rights belong to their rightful owners.**

* * *

The next few days repeat the same way: I hangout with Edward and then drive back home alone.

Tonight is no different.

I'm in Edward's bedroom getting ready to leave, and he's trying to persuade me to stay.

"It's late; you shouldn't drive back at this hour anyway," he says, watching me slip my shoes on.

I'm about to answer when I hit my upper leg on the sharp edge of his desk; my hand slams down onto the desk with a loud thud, and I curse.

"Ow, fuck!" I gently, tenderly, feel the area where it got me.

Just my luck—it was the spot right below where I have a healing cut. I curse again and Edward comes over to inspect the damage; something I definitely don't want him doing, so I try to wave him off, playing it cool.

"Yeah right, B. You're not foolin' anyone," he says, rolling his eyes.

He's right, but I also don't want him finding out about my little secret.

"I'm alright," I say when he reaches for my leg.

He shakes his head. "Just lemme see."

I shake my head.

"No, really, I'm OK," I insist.

He narrows his worried brown eyes at me, like he knows that I'm hiding something.

"Please," he says quietly. "It'll make me feel better; please."

I bite my lip, knowing that I'm in a sort of catch 22. If I keep refusing to show him, he's gonna keep insisting and thinking something more is wrong; and if I do allow him to look, he's going to see the cut I made. I slowly lift my leg up onto the offending desk to stretch it out.

He pushes up my sweats, and I feel the fabric pull and tug on the healing cut. It's in the itchy stage of healing, so it irritates me. I hardly breathe as he pushes it up the rest of the way, and then looks at where I hit the desk; he runs his fingers over it gently, and I can't deny that they feel good, because they do.

"It doesn't look that bad; I guess just ice it at home," he says, relief palpable in his voice and face.

I nod, and then the unthinkable—but I knew it was probably going to—happens: His thumb rubs a little higher accidently, and the place where the desk got me is only inches from the cut site, so he can easily slip up a little and feel it—which he just did. He frowns and then before I can stop him, he lifts up the sweats even further, and there it is. His face morphs into worry, then concern, and then disbelief when he realizes how it got there—I didn't even have to say anything, and he knew.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters.

"Don't say that," I reprimand.

He rolls his eyes and then eyes me.

"Why . . . when'd you do that?" he demands in a quiet voice.

One thing I won't tell him is when I cut; he would freak out, thinking it was because we had sex the other night—that wasn't why, not really.

"B, answer me," he says softly, looking worried as hell.

I bite my lip and pull the pants leg back down, hiding my not-so-secret secret again.

"I . . . I. . ." I trail off, unsure of what to say.

"What, sweetheart?" he probes.

I let out a harsh sigh.

"I'm messed up—fucked-up in the head. Yeah, I'm fucked in the head, 'kay?" I say exasperatedly.

He nods.

"Yeah, obviously," he mumbles.

Ouch.

Low blow, Edward . . . fucker.

"Don't even," I say, glaring at him.

He stops me when I go for the door, pulling me back by my arm.

"Are you gonna tell me anything?" he asks, narrowing his eyes.

I can feel the meds that I took—2 Valium—in the bathroom here beginning to take effect, but all it does is makes me irritable right now.

"I'm surprised you're even questioning it," I bite back.

"What?" he asks, confusion on his face.

I huff and shiver as I feel the drugs working.

"Like I said, I'm fucked in the head."

"Was it . . . did this have anything to do with what happened between us the other night?" he asks quietly. "'Cause I thought—you told me you were OK with what happened."

I roll my eyes.

"Not _everything _is about _you_, okay?" I say.

In actuality, my world revolves around him, and that's part of the problem.

He frowns.

"What's with you tonight? You've been, I don't know, testy for almost three or four hours," he says, suspicion in his tone.

It's true.

What he doesn't know, is that I've been popping Tylenol that I know Emma keeps in the bathroom mirror-cabinet, every two hours since I got here well over seven hours ago.

Sometimes, I need something more to help take the edge off, to help deal with Edward.

_Liar, liar,_ my conscious taunts.

I cross my eyes.

"Well, that's probably 'cause I've got Valium in my system," I reveal.

His brown eyes widen.

"You're high?" he asks in utter disbelief.

I blink twice and then nod.

He shakes his head slowly, like he doesn't believe me.

* * *

_Denial is a river in Egypt,_

_But it's powerful when it's most needed,_

_And it tends to protect our hearts,_

_And sometimes our minds,_

_When we most need it. . ._

* * *

"Why?" he says, his voice cracking.

I shrug.

"Like hell you don't know!" he explodes.

I flinch, not expecting him to yell, but recover just as quickly as it came.

"Leave," he says.

I narrow my eyes at him.

"What?" I ask, as if I heard him wrong.

He points to the door with one hand while running his other through his hair.

"I . . . I can't be around you right now; so please, just go," he reiterates for me.

His words hurt but I don't allow it to show.

However, I don't move an inch, and he huffs.

"Unless you want me to have an episode and try using—shit, maybe we can get high together though—I suggest you fucking leave—now," he says through clenched teeth.

How dare he . . . motherfucker.

"Fuck you," I say, glaring at him and then yank open the door and walk out, leaving it open.

* * *

_Ignorance is never bliss,_

_And ignoring someone,_

_And holding a grudge against them. . ._

_It's cruel. . ._

_It's cruelty to their heart, and to the mind. . ._

* * *

Days go by and I don't hear from Edward.

I know the game that he's playing; he's ignoring me because he's pissed and hurt. Well, welcome to the fucking club buddy.

I don't try to get a-hold of him, knowing that he'll talk to me when he wants to. It hurts like fucking hell, but a part of me knows that I deserve this. I can't sleep, and when if I do manage to, it's nightmares.

I've upped myself to six Tylenol, one Valium, and a half-cup of Nyquil.

That's just to be able to get tired enough so that my mind will shut the hell up and allow me to fall asleep; I still wake-up every one to two hours though.

And that's just to fall asleep.

.

.

.

* * *

_I love you, but you broke my heart,_

_When I saw the red slice against your beautiful skin,_

_That night. . ._

_You're beautiful,_

_But I can't be around you, _

_For I'm afraid I'll take us both down. . ._

* * *

.

.

.

I go through my nightly routine of popping pills just to be able to relax, and then sit down on the couch with my laptop on my lap. I check my emails and see that it's all junk, except for one.

A reply from Liz; I had emailed her the other night, explaining what had happened.

**FROM: **lizzilly1887

**TO: **Jelly Belly

**Subject: **_Re: hellish week vs another cut_

_B, _

_I'm incredibly sorry that I couldn't get back to you before! *sad face* UW has been hell lately, and I'm swamped b/c it's almost Thanksgiving break. Anyway…_

_I'm sorry that you had it out with Edward (again); I was hoping that maybe, just maybe, things might even out now that you two are older. I do wish that you would've picked up a phone and dialed me before you self-harmed though, hun. (Know, I'm not blaming you though.)_

_I know that I said I'm busy with vacation coming up and whatnot, but that doesn't mean that you can't call me if you need to! You know that I have my own apartment, with no roommate. But, for some reason, you have a preconceived thought that you're always "bothering" people if you ask for help. *shakes head* Silly girl. _

_I would absolutely l-o-v-e to have a word or several with Edward, the douche-fuck. It's completely like him, but I still cannot fully believe – comprehend – that he told you to leave! After pushing you to show him where you had banged yourself, and then discovering the cut… *bangs head on my own desk* He's a fucker alright? Lol; there, I said it. :p_

_Well, it's early (I don't know when you'll be reading this, but it's 7:00 in the morning right now), and I have to be at my first class by 8am sharp. (The professor is a hardass about timing.)_

_Iloveyou, you beautiful girl._

_~~Lizzie_

.

.

.

* * *

_True-best friends;_

_They're the ones who are care the most,_

_And prove it by being there when you're at your worst._

* * *

It's been two weeks since I last heard anything from Edward, and I'm beginning to say 'fuck it' about him and about returning. It's not as if he wants me there anyway, so why should I even care? I don't know, but I just do care. Edward has been my friend for a long, long time, and we were friends from the start. We actually met through Liz when we were younger, but somehow Edward and I had something from the start that neither of us seemed to understand. We hated being apart, even for a day—or at least, I hated it. Life with Edward has never been easy though; he's almost cost my friendship with Liz several times, and he hates it when anybody upsets me, immediately jumping in to 'defend' me against them. If I wanted to hang around with Emma then it was fine, but if I hung out with Liz, I would have to deal with his subtle jibes about her. I guess maybe he was jealous, but who knows.

As I said, life with him has never been 'easy', and I've almost given up on his plenty of times, but never have I willingly ignored him _this _long because he fucked-up and decided to get high or do something equally as stupid. (This isn't counting six and a half years ago when I told him he needed to get help, real help, or else I wouldn't be able to take any more.) How—and why—he's doing it this long I have no idea.

The only reason I can think of is revenge.

And it feels as if I don't even him anymore.

Everything is falling apart, piece by piece, my heart is breaking, and another part of me dies each time.

.

.

.

* * *

_Revenge is never right, nor good;_

_For it often backfires on the one seeking it._


	21. Chapter 21

**Thanks to Kelly Clarkson, P!nk, Rascal Flatts, Evanescence for putting out terrific and relatable music. :)**

**Keep chanting to yourself "HEA" 'cause yeah, it's gonna happen.**

* * *

**Can u come over? –e**

Come over . . . he has to be kidding, except that I know he isn't. After weeks of ignoring me—this is going on the fourth week—he wants me to go over there and do what, talk I guess. So, I do; but this time without medicating myself, and I feel bare without it.

* * *

I'm standing on Edward's back porch—I've always come in through the back—when he opens the door. I cross my arms as I walk inside and he shuts the door; I lean against the island, wondering what I'm doing here, and waiting for him to talk.

"What's going on?" I finally ask.

He looks at me confused.

"What do you mean?"

I roll my eyes.

"I mean, what am I doing here?"

"Ah," he says nodding.

I wait while he thinks or whatever it is that he's doing.

"I . . . I'm sorry about before," he starts.

I internally scoff and have a hard time not rolling my eyes. Apologies, apologies, apologies; all these apologies all the time, but you know what the best apology of all time would be? Him actually changing for once, keeping his word—but no, I highly doubt that'll happen.

_Hypocrite_, a little voice inside my head laughs.

"Is that it?" I say in a dull tone.

He raises his eyebrows in surprise, or maybe it's shock, or both.

"Uh . . . I-I'm not sure what to say, really," he says, grimacing.

I nod.

"Then is there really even a reason for me to be here?" I ask, tired.

I'm exhausted.

I just want to go back home and sleep for a thousand years; wake-up when this is all over—I would have to actually be able to sleep in order for that to happen though.

"If there's nothing else, I should get going," I say quietly.

He bites his lip, something that I picked-up from him.

"Oh . . . are you busy?" There's an edge of accusation in his tone.

It's almost as if he thinks I should just wait around for him; moping and filled with wishful thinking, that he's going to reappear one day soon, and forgive me for something that _he _caused to happen—well, that's exactly what I've been doing, sans the wishful thinking part.

I shrug.

"I certainly wasn't gonna wait 'round just to see when you'd get your head outta your ass," I say, rolling my eyes.

He glares at me, immediately taking on the defensive.

"Huh; well, excuse me for needing some time! You fucked with my head, and then expected me to be OK with it? That's funny B, so hilarious," he says without a trace of humor.

I snort.

"Don't—don't even go there! I fucked with your head? Dude, do you know how many times you've pulled this crap on me? Countless times; so no, don't go turning this onto me! Besides, it's my body; I can do whatever I want to and with it," I tell him angrily.

He looks taken aback by my outburst . . . good.

"Y'know what," I say, shaking my head. "I—I can't do this now."

I start for the door only to have him—his words—pull me right back in.

"You . . . you said you wouldn't leave again!" he says louder than necessary.

It makes me stop and turn back around, incredulous at his words and audacity.

"What," I say. "What the hell are you talking about? You've got NO right to talk to me about leaving!"

He makes his way over to me in three steps and reaches for me.

"Okay—I'm sorry," he says quietly, his hand coming out to touch my cheek.

I huff and push him away, shaking my head.

"Yeah, you're sorry, right?" I laugh in his face. "That's all you ever are, is fucking _sorry_! Y'know wh-what would b-be great—is if you ever changed! Go ahead, promise me you'll change!" I dare, looking right at him.

He avoids my eyes, and I nod, already knowing his answer.

"But you can't; at least ya don't give out false promises! I suppose I should be grateful for that, huh?" I spit out. "You—you did this," I add quietly.

He finally looks back at me when I add the last part; he frowns, but I can see the guilt seeping into him; like drugs running through his veins, the guilt seeps in too.

"Don't play stupid," I say, rolling my eyes. "You wanna know why I'm like this—why I cut, why I self-medicate all the time (why I did it in high school too)? Just look in the mirror, Edward, and you'll find the answer! I hate, hate, fuckin' _hate _what you are! You know why?" I pause to catch my breath, and he stays quiet, so I continue after a moment. "Because you forgot about _me_—it became all about you, you, you; your needs, what was currently happening with your fucked-up mess, your worries! I was left in the dark with that; sure, I came whenever you needed me—and that was probably a big portion of the problem—but when you left to seek help (which, don't get me wrong, I was happy about it), but you decided to stay away for four years, 'cause—shit, I'm still not exactly sure why. Do you have any idea what the hell I went through? I _constantly _checked the papers to see if a death might have been reported, anything that sounded like it could be you! Maybe to you it was the right thing to do, but to others—people that care—it was horrible!"

His mouth opens and closes, like he doesn't know what to say in rebuttal to my outburst, and maybe he shouldn't say anything at all. Realization dawns on me as I watch him look at me in shock.

_He's not changing_, my head whispers.

In all the years I have known him, he hasn't changed one bit, and that's the sad part. I wait around, and maybe I think it will be different the next time, or maybe I just fear losing him for good, but I continue to wait for him while he does his fucked-up thing. I hardly understand it, and I doubt he does either, but I can't take it anymore; it's killing me inside, and it's already gotten me to the point of numbing myself just to be able to deal with the pain of what's to come, might arrive, and what's already here. I can't continue to do . . . whatever this is, if I want any type of good future for myself; the problem comes in where all I've thought about is Edward, and my world has revolved around him and his wants, needs, aspirations. I'm not worried about being addicted to medication or cutting; no, I'm addicted to him, to Edward, and I have been for years.

I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots harshly.

"Y-you're ne-never gonna change," I whisper in a broken-cracked voice.

I can feel his eyes on me, but I don't meet them.

"What?" he whispers from in front of me.

I shake my head, fed-up.

"You keep apologizing, but . . . you never change," I say quietly. "All these apologies mean nothing if you jus' keep repeating—doing the same shit."

His apologies stopped meaning something awhile ago.

"Baby—what," he says, confused.

I don't think he's that confused though.

"And you're never gonna change; maybe you're incapable of it," I say, nodding slightly at my own words. "Some people just can't, and I realize that."

His right hand cups my cheek, but I shake my head, and remove his hand.

"You're killing me Edward. . . I'm fucking dying inside, and I don't think you even realize it—maybe sometimes you do, but generally not," I say with tears in my voice, but I refuse to let them fall yet.

"I love you," he whispers close to my ear; I hadn't realized he had gotten so close.

That's another problem: Edward's type tends to love the hardest. It's a beautiful disaster really, because when it's good then it's good, it's so good 'til it goes bad; then you're stuck trying to find the you that you once had. He's as damned as he seems, and more heaven than a heart could hold; if I continue to try to save him, my whole world could cave in—but fuck, it's already doing that. I love him, I always have and probably always will, but it's obviously not enough.

"It's not enough . . . not anymore," I whisper, not trusting my voice at this point.

I feel his breathing halt for a moment, and I know that he's either crying or is close to tears.

"If someone said three years from now that you'd be long gone, I'd stand up and punch them out," he says softly into my shoulder.

He wraps his arms around my waist and hugs me tight; as if that might keep me from leaving.

"I know better 'cause you said forever," he says in a hoarse whisper.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment, knowing that he's trying to guilt trip me; that also stopped working long ago.

After about a minute, I'm finally able to gather enough courage to unwrap myself from Edward's too tight embrace, and walk toward the door, him glaring at me through unshed tears.

"So that's it," he says, then swallows hard. "You're leaving."

* * *

_Being strong isn't always about letting go,_

_Sometimes it's about holding on when you had every right to let go,_

_But when that time comes,_

_To finally let go,_

_Just know that you put up a damn good fight. . ._

* * *

.

.

.

"You want s-somebody t-to bl-blame, look in the mirror," I tell him. "I won't take the blame for this . . . not anymore. I love you, but obviously you're never gonna change."

He doesn't say anything as I open the back door.

"Like I said . . . look at yourself if you really wanna blame someone."

He crosses his arms.

He doesn't say anything as I walk outside and shut the door behind me; he doesn't run outside as I start my car up and begin to back out. It takes everything I have in me not to go back there and collapse into his arms again. Sometimes the hardest thing and the right thing are the same.

* * *

It's harder this time around; when I told him goodbye before (when we were younger and he wanted to seek help), I figured I'd see him again one day. This time, it feels final, and it hurts. It's only been three days, but tonight is the worst. It's Friday night, and the pain the worst I've ever felt—and I've felt a lot of emotional shit before; this beats everything else out though. I wind-up taking two Valium and another pain medication that I had left over from an accident that involved breaking my wrist ten months ago. I pop all three pills into my mouth and swallow them with water, and then send Liz an email.

**TO: **Liz

**FROM: **B. Swan

**Subject: **Winner at a losing game

_It's over…it's finally over, and it hurts. Liz, why does it hurt so much? It shouldn't right? I mean, not with everything that he's done to me over the years – I should be happy it's finally done; but I'm not, not really. It feels like I can't breathe without him, but I have to._

_Love u,_

_~-~ B_


	22. Chapter 22

**Everything belongs to their rightful owners; I own this plot (and I got permission to use certain things)**

* * *

**Thanks to: _12 Stones, Taylor Swift, Sheryl Crow, Maroon 5, Aerosmith, Skillet, Kelly Clarkson, P!nk, The Beatles, Trading Yesterday, Apocalyptica, _and many others who got me through writing this chapter, including Nic, who's like the sister I never had. She's gotten me through some of the toughest shit lately, love ya. :) (She also reads my stuff and assures me that it's good even when I don't think it is, lol.)**

**(Attention: I changed the dates around; the real life situation happened in _May_, not November, and part of it occurred at the end of June as well, of last year.)**

* * *

"**I'm not strong enough to stay away**

**Can't run from you**

**I just run back to you**

**Like a moth I'm drawn into your flame**

**Say my name, but it's not the same**

**You look in my eyes I'm stripped of my pride**

**And my soul surrenders and you bring my heart to its knees.**

**. . . . .**

**And it's killin' me when you're away, I wanna leave and I wanna stay,**

**I'm so confused, so hard to choose,**

**Between the pleasure and the pain,**

**And I know it's wrong and I know it's right,**

**Even if I try to win the fight, my heart would overrule my mind,**

**And I'm not strong enough to stay away." **– Not Strong Enough, Apocalyptica

* * *

It's been two weeks.

I've kept in contact with Emma, not wanting her brother's and my shit to interfere with our friendship. Liz doesn't think it's a good to talk to someone so close to Edward, but I need it in a way; I'm not ready to let go completely. I understand where Liz is coming from, but I also know that I've known Edward since before high school, so yeah; I'd like to keep what little I can. At first, I tried keeping myself busy, but that only last so long before I finally gave in and allowed myself to feel loss.

* * *

**Thursday – November 19**

My phone buzzes with a new text.

I grab it and slide it open, checking the text.

_**Call me plz – its important –e**_

I scoff.

After weeks of not hearing from him, he texts me out of the blue, asking me to _call_? At least he didn't leave a voicemail first.

* * *

**Thursday, November 19 – nighttime**

Edward rang my phone a few minutes ago; I let it go to voicemail.

However, I'm not strong enough not to check it—curiosity killed the cat and all—so I dial my number and listen to it.

"_Uh hey . . . I know you probably don't want me to do this, but I have to . . . Emma's in the hospital. I tried texting you earlier today to tell you, but uh, yeah; I'm guessing you ignored it (with good reason I guess). I figured you'd wanna know since I know you two still talk. Um, so yeah . . . gimme a call or something to lemme know if you're gonna be coming by the hospital—she's at Harborview. Bye."_

The message ends and I shake my head.

Should I go? Yes, I should. Because Emma's my friend and it would be the right thing to do; however, Edward would most likely hang around the whole time, and I'm just not ready for that. She would understand if I didn't make it, I think.

I feel horrible for deciding not to go, but another part of me thinks it's the correct thing to do.

* * *

**Thursday, November 19 – nighttime**

I'm sitting in my old bedroom of my dad's house. (I'd kept it after he moved to Germany right after retirement.) I'm looking stuff up online and listening to _Long Way To Happy_ when a knock sounds from my window. My hands freeze over the keyboard of the computer, and I'm wary to look because I don't want to find out, not really. The knocking continues, and I'm left wondering what to do. The logical part says to just get up and answer it, but the stubborn part of me says to ignore him. Suddenly, my phone is blinking with a brand-new text.

_**Can U come 2 ur window plz? –e**_

I set the phone back down, ignoring his words. Minutes pass by, and when he realizes I'm not going to respond to his request, he sends another text.

_**Or I'll just unlock it from out here – ive done it be4 and I remember how –e**_

Shit, shit, motherfucking shit.

I should have known he would remember how to unlock the window he used to spend so much time climbing in through late at night during high school—considering he's the one that discovered that it could be unlocked from the outside in the first place.

I bite my lip and think over his threat quickly, even though there's not a doubt in my mind that he would follow through with it. So, knowing that it's raining out and that my balcony doesn't have a shield from rain, I don't want him getting sick—even though I'm trying to remain detached, I still can't help but care—and maybe a part of me doesn't want to see him turn to drugs because I turned him.

What if he really needs me tonight? I don't want it to be on my conscious if he uses—or overdoses—again just because I turned him away. I get up and go over to the window, slide back the curtains, and open the window, letting him inside. I also notice that it's stopped raining—my sole purpose for giving in.

_Ha, that's funny, but you can't lie to yourself, _my conscious whispers.

So maybe my other reason is that I don't want to go through the pain of turning him away. So what if that's the case? It's selfish but true; I've gone through enough in the past two weeks, so yeah, I think I'm entitled to this. Some people might wonder why I'm throwing away two weeks of being 'strong', but they wouldn't understand it if I explained it to them.

Edward takes off the black hoodie—the same hoodie I'd worn for days on end a couple of weeks ago—and drops it to the floor. It irritates me, him acting as if he owns the room or lives here, but I push it back down, choosing to sit back down by my laptop on the bed; I close the page I was looking at out. I put my focus anywhere but at Edward, who is busy running a hand through his damp hair. I settle my eyes on the file folder that holds all of my MP3s, and scroll through them. I end up choosing _Here Comes The Sun_. Finally, I get tired of him just standing there and tell him that he sit on the bed if he wants.

"Uh, thanks," he says quietly as he takes a seat.

He leans back against the wall, legs out and crossed at the ankles. His black jeans are torn in places, and his faded Kings Of Leon concert tee is old, but somehow still fits him. It reminds me of the shirt that I stole from him when we were nineteen; we had gone to see Skillet and he had bought a concert tee on the way out—after waiting in line for almost two hours. I'm pretty sure he knows that I took it though.

The song changes to _Low _by Cracker, and I noticed him smirking a little; I know why. We'd decided to get smoke a joint and listen to this song one night, and what followed was . . . interesting at best. I hate remembering the good times, the fun times, because I'll laugh at first, but then the sadness takes over and I'll want to cry; being bitter, cold, and hard is shit too though.

"H-h-ho—how. . ." I'm stuttering, not able to get words out.

He looks at me.

"You can whisper it . . . I know it's easier sometimes," he tells me quietly.

I glare down at the bed, mad that he knows me so well, knows what works to get me to calm down, knowing me in mind, body, and shit, maybe even soul.

"H-how'd you know I was here?" I whisper.

He fidgets with a loose thread on his shirt; the song changes to Aerosmith's _Jaded_.

"You weren't at the house—your house—so I figured you'd probably be here. When I came and looked up, I saw the light on," he explains.

I hum quietly and roll my eyes when the song changes to a lovesick one.

"Ugh, one more fucking love song and I'll be sick," I mutter.

Edward snorts.

"Isn't that a Maroon 5 lyric?"

I nod.

I click on a song and it fills the room with the lyrics to _Lie To Me_.

"Why?" I ask quietly, still uncertain if I actually want an answer or not.

He clears his throat.

"'Cause . . . Em's in the hospital with a case of pneumonia, and I . . . I needed someone," he says quietly.

I'm too afraid to ask if he wanted to use again, so I go another route.

"Did . . . um, did an episode occur?"

He nods, and I have to bite my lip to keep from screaming in frustration, or even crying.

He seems to think that I can somehow, magically, save him, but I can't; he can't be saved by anyone except himself, but he doesn't see that. No, he wants somebody else to do all the work for him, and to be there every time something goes wrong incase he uses—it doesn't work that way, though; _he _has to be the one to stop himself when the urges enter his mind and try to take over.

"I can't . . . I can't always be the one to save you," I say quietly but firmly.

He looks down at his jeans while I talk.

"Why not?" he asks softly.

I sigh and lean back against the wall that my bed is against.

"'Cause, it's killing me; do you realize that, or no? Or, do you realize and just not care?" I say bitterly.

"You've never said anything before . . . you haven't ever had a—a problem with it over the years," he says softly.

I snort.

"Actually, I have, you just don't listen. But, I'll say it again. It's breaking me, has been for a long time. It kills me every time you swallow the pills instead of coming to me—"

"I tried coming to you, but you shut me out!" he says, cutting me off.

I sigh.

"You were already so far gone that it probably wouldn't have made a damn different if I hadn't."

"Probably," he repeats.

I shrug.

"That's the past, and I can't change it. Like I said, it kills me—I die a little more inside each time you use. I keep wondering, in the back of my mind 'cause it scares me so much that I have to keep it pushed back, how long it's gonna be before you finally do end up killing yourself. How long is that gonna be, how far or near into the future is it? I don't wanna be around for that!"

He looks at me finally, and surprisingly it's not me who has tears falling, but him. He looks so forlorn, so fucking heartbroken that it chews and eats away at me, but I can't bring myself to comfort for him; he needs to understand what I go through, and if losing me—just like I lose him each and every time he swallows the drugs—then I guess so be it.

"I—I don't know _how _to quit," he whispers brokenly.

I bite my lip.

"Mind over matter—but honestly, it's 'cause you don't _want _to stop; you don't want to have to say 'no' and fight the urges. It's something you're used to doing, and I can't be there constantly to literally fight you when you've taken them," I say.

"Can't or won't?" he asks, narrowing his tear-filled eyes at me.

"Both," I say without hesitation.

_She Will Be Loved _begins to play.

"Why. . ." he says, trailing off.

I frown.

"Why what?" I ask.

"Why isn't me loving you enough?" he says, tears falling again.

Everything in me wants to crawl over and hug him, but I fight it; 'cause I'd be a hypocrite if I didn't take my own advice, after all.

I swallow back the nauseated feeling that is rising up from my stomach, along with the tears that want to come, and breathe carefully, slowly.

"B-because . . . sometimes, it just isn't. J-just 'cause you love someone doesn't mean you're good for them and vice versa," I say quietly.

He chokes on air, trying to get in a breath while crying, and I fucking hate seeing him like this—I'm not that cold, it still hurts me to see him hurting, and especially to know that I'm the cause of it. I can't hold it in any longer, and I cover my mouth with my hand as I finally cry a gut-wrenching sob. It gets his attention; he looks up with his sad, tear-streaked face and eyes, and sees me. He moves over the space that has kept us separated for the last hour, trying to get to me; I shake my head when he goes to touch me.

"No," I cry, shaking my head.

I curl into myself, trying to make it so that he can't hug-hold me.

He sighs-huffs and part of it fans over my face.

He listens for once though, and doesn't try to hold me; instead he settles for sitting to my left, sort of kitty corner from me.

* * *

It's quiet apart from _May I _playing softly from the floor.

I'm drained from crying so hard, and Edward moved back to his original spot. I pick up the laptop and go to the folder that's labeled '_the wild ones_'; it's full of pictures of both Edward and I together, old and some kind of new. I click on one and turn the screen to him.

"You remember this?" I ask in a hoarse voice.

He nods, a stray tear falling from his right eye.

It's a picture of the two of us at one of his parties back in senior year; he's leaning the large rock-cave that's still there, and I'm in his embrace with his arms around me; I think we were watching the bonfire.

I click on and another it to him. He frowns.

"I don't recognize that," he says.

I nod; I knew he wouldn't.

This time we're near the water.

"It was taken right after we all threw our grad caps into the ocean," I say quietly.

He nods.

We then had to fish them back out.

Another one is of us when we were sixteen; it's of Edward and I, and we're on my bed, asleep. His arm is around me, and I'm facing away from the camera; he's on his back with his other arm on resting on my cheek; my head is on his chest.

"I don't remember that picture either," he comments.

I nod.

"Probably 'cause Liz sent it to me a few years ago—I never knew she took it," I say.

It was while everything was still 'okay'—but whom am I trying to fool; it's never been okay, not even close. When the good times—like the one with throwing our graduation hats into the ocean—came along, you learned to soak it up because they could change in the blink of an eye, or in Edward's case, from triggers. Anything has always triggered him, and I've spent so much time trying to figure out what did and didn't, would and wouldn't, trigger him that it got to the point where I finally stopped; because I figured if something is going to happen, so be it. I was seventeen then. Now, at 27-years-old, I realize that almost nothing has changed; we're still stuck in the same damn labyrinth that we were as kids, only it's more serious now, and decisions _must _be made, because we aren't kids anymore—and that's the scary part.

* * *

"Do you regret meeting me?" Edward asks out of nowhere.

It's 1:30 in the morning, and _The First Cut Is The Deepest _is quietly playing. I chew on my bottom lip, thinking. He should know the answer though; that no, I don't regret him; I don't regret anything, or at least I try not to. Because you only have one life to live, and it's awful to live with regrets.

"No," I answer softly. "You know I don't regret anything."

I'm not sure I know how to regret, to be honest.

He sighs.

"I wish I could be more like you," he says, surprising me.

I frown. "Why?"

He shrugs.

"Tell me," I prod.

"'Cause . . . you don't have any regrets; you don't carry that weight around, feeling guilty about shit—I wish I had that."

I sigh and rub my neck.

"Just 'cause I don't regret things doesn't mean I don't feel guilt, Edward. I feel _tons _of guilt every single day. If I could go back and change certain things, I would; but I can't, and that's mainly why I don't see the point in regretting shit. It's impossible to go back and undo the past," I tell him. "And besides. . ." I pause.

"What?"

"If I could do that, I wouldn't have some of the best memories of my life," I say quietly.

It's the truth.

Even though throughout the years our relationship hasn't exactly been ethical, I still wouldn't trade it for anything.

"You still consider me to be one of the best parts of your life?" he asks in disbelief.

I nod.

He shakes his head.

"I—I don't see why, though. All I've done is hurt you—taken you for a rollercoaster ride for years!"

I shrug, trying to show indifference.

"It's all I've ever known," I tell him.

He shoots me a look of incredulousness.

"Yeah, and that's just fucking sad," he says bluntly.

I shrug again.

"Maybe, but y'know what?" I ask, waiting until he responds.

"What?" he mumbles.

"I wouldn't want to know any other way," I say with conviction.

This causes a look of sadness and remorse to appear on his face.

"Then why are you doing this?" he says so quietly.

I could be a prick and ask what he means, make his explain in detail, just to make him suffer even more, but it would be useless and it's just not me—not right now anyway.

"Because I don't know what else to do," I say, rubbing both hands over my face.

When I open my eyes, I see that he's glaring at me.

"So, 'cause you don't know what else to do, you settle for leaving—which you promised you wouldn't do," he says.

The hurt—betrayal—is evident in his voice, and it hurts because yes, I did break my promise of not going anywhere; something I told him when he came over that night when I'd seen him in that bookstore earlier in the day for the first time in almost four years, and was scared shitless that I would lose him again, and was trying to cling on. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks I enjoy hurting him like this, because I don't.

"Why are you doing this? Wait, I get the why; it's the fact you're doing it that I can't fucking grasp," he admits.

I'm surprised that he admitted that much.

I cross my arms, a defense mechanism that's been there since I was young.

"I'm hurting, Edward," I say softly, because it's as hard for me to say any of this as it is for him to hear it. "It hurts _so _bad, yet I don't wanna be without you; going that route fucking kills me—but I don't know what else to do! It's either deal with it or leave. It hurts that I don't know what the hell to do—other than sit back and watch—when episodes come. I sit back and watch it all happen, and it hurts . . . it hurts so much . . . so bad." Tears fall down my cheeks and I don't bother wiping them away.

He looks torn, like he understands—grasps—what I'm telling him, but doesn't know what to do either. He gets up and crawls over to kneel in front me; he pushes my legs down to that they're flat against the bed, and then situates himself so that his knees are on either side of my closed legs—a few inches and he'd be sitting on me.

His warm hands hold my face, gently caressing my wet cheeks; more tears fall.

"Let me hold you . . . please, please, please," he whisper-begs against my forehead, and I nod, caving once again.

* * *

He holds for me I don't know how long.

He whispers apologies that torture my heart and make my head scream, and make me want to scream at him because they're useless.

"I need you," he whispers to the top of my head; my back is to his chest. "I need you. I can't fucking breathe when you're not around; you're the only thing I know like the back of my motherfucking hand. . ."

I squeeze my eyes shut in hopes of stopping the tears, all to no avail. It would be comical that he's defiling a Taylor Swift song if it were different circumstances, but it's not.

"You're my every-fucking-thing, B. I'll die if you leave," he whispers brokenly.

His every-fucking-thing, now that is comical. Am I his everything when he turns to drugs? When he's so fucking high that he loses himself, and malice-filled words spit from his mouth? How when he believes the lies that cutthroat people tell him? I'm not his every-fucking-thing then.

Him, him, him; it's all about him. His needs, what's good and bad for _him_, not me. He never for one-second gives thought that I am killing myself inside—it's half murder half suicide to be perfectly honest. He kills me a little more each time he allows the urges to control him, and I help him simply by letting him.

"Leave," I say so quietly, I'm not sure he even hears me.

I have my answer when his arm tightens around me, and I know that this is his way of disagreeing.

I need him to go though; it's too much having him here tonight, holding me like we're back in high school again. Like the night, we had sex for the first time when we were sixteen; we were high and round up having sex, which made it awkward for a while, until I came clean that I didn't regret it at all.

"Why?" he asks just as quietly.

I turn onto my stomach, trying to get out his hold, but it's more mental—emotional—than physical.

"'Cause . . . I need you to," I say hoarsely.

He leans closer and rests his forehead against the back of my neck.

"If you love me—or even care about me at all—and wanna make this easy on me, you'd do this," I say, hating the fact that I'm basically manipulating him into leaving.

So confused, so hard to choose between the pleasure and the pain; but I need him to go, otherwise I'm going to keep suffocating.

He brings my heart to its knees.

"I _do _love you, and I _do _care about you," he whispers into my skin, his breath and words melting into me. "I love you, I love you, I fucking love you—but you don't seem to believe me anymore."

I clench my teeth together, not wanting to cry.

"It hurts B," he says softly. "Hurts to know that you sound dead when you talk, like emotionless nowadays."

I inhale a shuddering breath and then slowly exhale it.

"You gotta show it too, though," I tell him quietly.

"There have been good things, you know that," he says reverently.

I sigh shakily.

"Sometimes, the bad cancels out the good—no matter how hard you try, it just happens that way," I whisper emotionlessly.

"Why—how—is it so fucking easy for you to leave before?" he asks, ignoring what I just said.

He still doesn't get it.

None of this has ever been easy; I can't believe he's trying to say that it's _easy _for me. Nevertheless, it's Edward, so it is sort of believable.

I give in and answer him like he wants.

I've done too much of that.

"Tell me to go and I will," he says suddenly.

The promise is strong in his tone, but what's stronger is cockiness, as if he thinks I'm going to say 'stay'.

"Go," I tell him in a clearer voice.

He stills the hand that's on my shoulder, clearly taken by surprise or shock.

Then, he lets go of me, saying, "Okay . . . if that's what you want."

I nod. "Yeah, it's what I want."

Neither of us says anything else as he shuffles on his hoodie and then proceeds to climb out my window, shutting and locking it.

I bury my face into the pillow and cry, immediately feeling the loss of him once again.

This is what I cannot deal with; constantly losing him over and over again, then getting him back for a bit, just to lose him once again.


	23. Chapter 23

**All rights belong to their rightful owners; I own this plot.**

* * *

**FROM: Angela Weber**

**TO: Isabella M. Swan**

**Subject: _(None)_**

_**Isabella,**_

_**I have been doing some thinking since you just up and took off that day weeks ago to go back to that addict. (I would apologize for calling him that, but it would be a lie.)**_

_**I suppose I owe you an explanation of why I am the way that I am today; the reasons of why I treated you so coldly. The first and foremost reason is that you remind me of my former (younger) self; back when I was in High School. You would probably never guess it or believe me (and I wouldn't try to convince you otherwise), but I was a mousy little thing in those days; quiet, shy, kept to myself most of the time. I hardly went out, I had a couple of friends, but mostly I kept around my house, read, and studied. I hated High School Isabella; despised the way the faculty members acted, and especially the kids. As I stated, you remind me of myself from that time. As I'm sure you're finding out, Hollywood and its business is a lot like High School, only multiply it by about 1,000,000. It is a cruel world to live in; people are cutthroat, Isabella – more so than they are in the regular world. If someone backstabs you in this industry, you either pay them off or you're done; normally it's both though. (Unless you're of a specific "type" here.) I didn't want that for you; you're much too good to be fed to the wolves, Isabella. Although you most likely will not believe me (and I'll understand completely), I was simply trying to protect you, in a sense; trying to prepare you and make you understand what people in this business are like – Alec Volturi, for example. You may not believe it Isabella, especially with how young he is (only thirty), but he has quite a bit of power allover the industry, and he could and would make your career a living hell (or simply end it altogether) because of you going off on him – especially while still in the interview. The Volturis have been in this business since the beginning, and they have never changed; Alec is just one of many whom are like him in this business though.**_

_**I apologize for being so crass/rude to you during our final conversation, talking about your . . . boyfriend that way; I was only trying to get you to see what you would be doing to your career. Ask Rosalie Hale if you won't take my word (Which you shouldn't always take one person's word for anything); she has had more than her share of dealing with the Volturis. **_

_**I shall end this now, however for some ungodly reason; I just wanted the chance to explain that I was not always this stone like. (Also, if you're looking for another agent, I'll give some recommendations who come very highly recommended.)**_

_**-Angela Weber**_

I'm on the phone with Charlotte, a friend of mine who lives in Long Island, New York; I'm also staring at Angela's email.

"_Why don't you come here for awhile?" _Charlotte says, breaking me away from the email.

I frown and sign out of my email account.

"What do you mean, go there? Where's _there_, exactly?" I ask her, smirking.

"_New York; Long Island, more specifically!"_

"I don't know. . ." I pause. "Where are you staying now?"

She sighs.

"_I'm at another apartment, closer to where I work. It's near Mom's, plus when that fucker left me with the rent to pay at _our _old apartment, I decided it was time to move."_

She's referring to her ex-boyfriend slash ex-fiancé slash . . . whatever. They had a less than amicable break-up; he cheated on her.

I hum

"I could use some getting outta here," I tell her. "I don't wanna bother you, though."

"_B, you never bother me. Besides, I could use the company—plus, I invited you, so you have to accept!"_

I bite my lip.

"I don't know . . . I don't wanna impose."

"_Bella, really; it ain't imposing if you're invited! Besides, I think you could use getting away for a bit," _she says.

I sigh, knowing that she's not wrong.

"Okay," I concede.

* * *

**One week later – packing**

It's almost the end of November, and already snowing in most of New York, including Long Island. I pack the warmest clothes I have, along with some things to hang around in. I zip-up the suitcase and put it near the front door; it's 3:30 in the morning Pacific time, and I have to be at the airport soon. I lock everything up, and then meet Liz outside. She helps me put my stuff into her car, and just as I'm getting in, Edward shows up.

"Wait," he says, a little out of breath.

I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, bite my lip, and then turn around to face him.

"Yeah," I say.

I can hardly see him because it's still dark out, but I know that he's wearing that fucking hoodie.

"Um, I—I just wanted to catch you before you left," he says quietly.

I nod and glance down at the ground.

"How long are you gonna be gone?" he asks softly.

I shrug and look back up.

"I-I don't know; Char invited me for an indefinite amount of time, so I guess 'til we get sick of each other?" I say, trying to joke.

He nods.

"Charlotte, of course—I should've guessed since it's New York you're going to," he says, and I just know that he's rolling his eyes.

I don't bother asking what his problem is because I already know.

It has to do with Charlotte's ex; I may or may not have had a crush on the guy a few years ago—I was fifteen and naïve, though; Charlotte's not quite five years older than me, and her ex is ten years older than I am, so I knew nothing would ever occur between him and I; trying convincing Edward of that, though. He always swore something 'more' happened when I visited one time.

"I gotta get going," I tell him, opening the passenger door.

He nods, tells me to be safe; I don't say anything back to him as I get into the car and Liz pulls away from the curb.

* * *

Hours later, I'm in Charlotte's car on the way to her apartment; we catch up on the drive. She asks about my books, writing, and then Edward. I tell her everything because there isn't any use in hiding things from her. In return, I ask her if she ever hears from the dumb-fuck (my nickname for her ex); she shrugs.

"I hear _of _him . . . the last I saw him was when our goddaughter was sick in the hospital—he didn't stay long though, only an hour," she answers.

It's silent the rest of the drive, but it's comfortable. She asks if I want some music on; when I nod, she switches on one of our old favorite artists, and I smirk, looking out the window at the cloudy sky.


	24. Chapter 24

**Twilight belongs to Stephenie; I own this plot. **

**I promised HEA, right? Well, just remember that "HEA" (happiness) comes in different forms, okay? **

* * *

It's March already, and it's unbelievable how much time has passed since I've been here in New York.

East Coast winters are brutal, but this one was exceptionally cold because I left the one thing that always kept me warm and protected out on the other coast. Charlotte and I spent Christmas together at her apartment, but spent Christmas Eve at 'Mom's'; her ex's mother, who is like a mother to Charlotte since her own parents disowned her for choosing to continue being with him, even after they warned her he wasn't good for her. Christmas time in New York is beautiful for someone who has never spent time here during it before; Charlotte and I went into the city, and for a while, I was able to forget why I had come here in the first place. The lights, the snow, everything was amazing—even the dirty sludge on the ground.

Charlotte brought in the mail a little while ago, and said that something had come for me. I'm holding that something in my hands right now; it's a letter, from Edward.

_**Bella,**_

_**It's March 8 as I write this.**_

_**You said you didn't know how long you would be gone for, and I didn't push you. But, December turned into January, and finally, you told me you needed more time last month; I started to think about that, really think. I think that separation is good; us being on different coasts and all is good for both of us. **_

_**I'm not sure where it all went (again) exactly, but I'm really fucking hoping it wasn't because we had sex. I hope you understand why I always backed away from it when you would suggest it – because I didn't want to push either of us and wind up with this. I made a mistake by believing Angela, I know that; and I made a bigger mistake by the way I reacted to hearing it. If I could take it back, I would.**_

_**Take as much more time as you need, but if you meet someone in the meantime, and he makes you happy (makes you forget all the shit I put you through, even for a little while), brings a smile to your face, as much as it hurts to me say, please go for it. Don't hold back, okay? You deserve happiness; not something that like I am. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to offer something 'normal' – to anyone. You've stuck by me through a lot of shit, and why I don't have a fucking clue (I guess you've always loved me enough though), but I want and need you to be happy. Like I said, if some guy comes along that you really like and want, but are too afraid because of how I'll react, please don't be. I want you happy, so be happy. **_

_**When you wrote before, saying you weren't sure about returning just yet, I knew that I needed to do something – even if that means finally letting you go, allowing you to be free. **_

_**Don't ever doubt if I love you or not, because I do. **_

_**Like they say though: If you love something, set it free; if it comes back, then it was meant to be.**_

_**Don't rush back because you feel guilty or something though. If you want to stay longer, then stay.**_

_**I love you, and wish nothing but the best for you.**_

_**-Edward**_

* * *

"So, what'd it say?" Charlotte says later.

It's 8pm and we're eating a late dinner; Chinese. Since neither of us felt like cooking, she offered to order take-out and asked what I wanted.

I sigh and swallow a bite of three star Mongolian beef.

"Basically the gist of it was, he wants me to be happy, and if I happen to come across someone while I here who lets me forget what I've gone through and puts a smile on my face, to go for it," I say, grabbing for the can of Mountain Dew.

Char's eyebrows furrow as she picks up a carton that's filled with shrimp fried rice.

"I wonder why the change of heart all of a sudden," she says, and stuffs a chopstick-full of rice into her mouth.

I shrug and take a long gulp of cold Mountain Dew.

"I don't know, but I'm also not sure I'm 100% liking what he said, either."

She frowns.

"What do you mean?"

"The fact that he's suddenly so accepting of the possibility of me finding someone else, and actually giving me the go ahead—not that I'd need it, but yeah." I frown at nothing.

She picks up her coke and takes a slug, swallows, and then looks at me.

"I'm not sure, B; all I can tell you is that it reminds me of when douche-fuck and I were having problems—before he cheated. He told me that I deserved more, and that he was tired of hurting me, that he'd lemme go if it was what I wanted," she tells me.

I nod and lean back against the couch, thinking.

"You can stay as long as you want," she says, breaking through my thoughts.

I look over at her, thinking she's kidding, but she's not.

"I'm serious. I like having you here, you're fun. So, stay as long as you need/want, okay?"

I nod and then help her clean-up.

March turned into April, April turned into May, and May is quickly turning into June. I'm packing to go back home for a few days to get some things done, but I'm returning to New York. I told Edward back in May that I wanted to stay in New York, and he told me he was happy for me; I'm not sure how true that was, but I accepted it.

I didn't expect to be away this long, but I found that I really enjoyed Long Island and the different scenery; plus Charlotte and I get along well. It just worked out for the better.

* * *

**Sea-Tac – June 21**

Emma picks me up and we talk all the way to the house—my house. When we get there, she helps me get my suitcase into the living room, and then says she'll be back later. I nod and then begin settling in, looking around; I haven't been here in forever—this is actually _my _house, the one Edward and I shared when we agreed to living together. I drag the suitcase into the bedroom and glance around, for what I'm sure; it just feels different.

* * *

When I'm at Emma's later, I ask her if Edward still stays at the house we shared.

"I think so," she says, messing with something on the counter.

I watch as she makes dinner, and then we eat together, talking about what we've both been up to since I left. I tell her about New York, about Charlotte and how I've been. She tells me that Emmett brought up talk about marriage.

"Whoa," I say. "Are you ready for that?"

She shrugs.

"It would be nice, but I'm just not sure."

"About him?" I ask, referring to Emmett.

She shakes her head.

"Nah, I love Emmett; no, I was talking about my brother," she admits.

I nod. "Edward's a big boy Em."

She shrugs.

"How's he doing?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Her face turns uneasy, and so does my stomach when I see her expression.

"What?" I say warily.

"Um, you should really talk to him about how he's doing," she says.

"Why?"

"It's not my place to say," she says, frowning.

I narrow my eyes but don't press her on it.

* * *

**June 26**

"_H-hey, sorry I missed your call, I was . . . busy. Um, you mentioned meeting up and I'd really love to talk to you while you're here. If you want, we can meet at that Starbucks you like? So, just call me back to lemme know . . . bye."_

* * *

I send him a text, letting him know that I'm here at Starbucks. I look around and finally spot him; he's wearing that damn hoodie.

I go over and tap him on the shoulder, and immediately mind myself enjoying the feel of the hoodie's fabric. He looks up and a smile spreads across his lips; he stands up and gives me a one-arm hug. I return it and then sit down across from him.

"It's nice to see you again," he starts.

I nod.

"Yeah, you too," I say gently.

Silence occurs until he breaks it.

"I don't want this to be . . . awkward," he says.

I smirk. "Well, it's just us."

He rolls his eyes.

"You might not think that when you hear the real reason why I wanted to meet," he mutters into his coffee.

I frown and ask what he means.

He shakes his head.

"You go first; tell me about you've been up to—how New York treating you?" He grins, but it looks uneasy.

So, I tell him; I tell him about living with Charlotte and how that's been (he knows she's like the sister I've never had), and I describe the city at Christmas time. He listens to every word, absorbing them.

By the time I'm finished, I realized I've finished the coffee that he purchased for me.

"So," I say, folding my arms on the round table. "What 'bout you?"

He sighs and fidgets with the wrapper from his straw.

"I've uh, been OK; up 'til last month, anyway." He grimaces.

I frown, worried that something happened to him.

"Did um, did another episode happen?" I ask softly.

He shakes his head.

"No, I wish though."

I hate it when he's cryptic.

"Tell me," I plead softly. "The truth."

He nods. "Yeah . . . you deserve the truth—even if it sends you running from me, my life."

I narrow my eyes, wondering what on earth he's done.

"Edward," I say, warning in my tone.

"I . . . I slept with this girl—woman—last month . . ."

I nod. I can't say much, because we aren't technically together.

"She's pregnant," he mumbles. "I-I found out last week."

I'm stunned into silence.

He got a girl pregnant.

"I'm sorry," he says when I don't answer him.

I shake my head slowly.

"I-it's . . . never mind. Why are you telling me this?" I ask.

He sighs.

"'Cause you deserve to know," he tells me.

"Are you sure it's yours?" I blurt out, then cover my mouth, wincing.

He nods, though.

"Yeah, it's definitely mine."

* * *

**June 27**

I get on the plane at Sea-Tac to head back to New York.

I won't deny that it hurts hearing about him getting another girl pregnant, but it is what it is.

* * *

**Six months later – December (Long Island, NY)**

"Hey B; you've got a package here," Charlotte says.

It's 4pm and I'm busy packing my things to take to my own apartment from hers. I sit on the couch where the large box is. I slice it open with scissors and then set them down, opening the box. Needless to say, I'm more than shocked when I pull out Edward's black hoodie from the package, along with a letter.

"What is it?" Charlotte asks, sitting next to me.

"His hoodie," I say quietly.

* * *

**Later that night**

I sit on the couch with Charlotte as she does stuff on her Macbook, and I'm reading the letter that came along with the box that Edward sent.

_**Bella, hi. . .**_

_**It's been six months since I've seen you, and I'm sure (or at least I hope) you're moving on, but I wanted to send this to you. I wanted you to have the hoodie that you always loved and used to wear all the time; I'm beginning to outgrow it, but I figured you never would. **_

_**I watched your face that day in Starbucks when I told you about getting a girl pregnant; what you didn't know was that she – we – kept it, the baby. She's seven months along now, and healthy. I don't know if it's a boy or girl yet, but yeah, it's good. I'm sure you don't want to hear this, but she's a really great girl who knows what I'm going through (she's been through it herself); she knows a little about you, and knows that we met up in June. She wanted me to give you closure as well, and practically forced a pen and piece of paper into my hands.**_

_**I want you to move on as best you can; please, for the love of God, don't do anything stupid because of what I did. I wish nothing but the best for you, I honestly do. I wanted to spend forever with you, but I'm learning that 'forever' is only a moment. (What's the saying you always said? 'Forever is a moment in time.')**_

_**I'll always care about you, and love you. We spent our teen years together, and you'll always be special to me. You're an amazing person and an amazing friend, B; please believe that.**_

_**I'm sorry if I cut off any chances of you returning, but it's most likely for the best.**_

_**I hope you find someone who loves you like I do, but in the right ways, and doesn't give you hell all the time. Someone who makes you laugh and smile, etc. **_

_**I'll love you always,**_

_**-Edward**_

I grip the letter and feel tears falling down my cheeks. It's hard to know that someone is moving on from you, but it needs to be done.

I feel Charlotte behind me, pulling me into a hug.

I cry and she stays up with me almost all night.


	25. Chapter 25

**Twilight belongs to Stephenie; I own this plot.**

**HEA comes in different forms, and I thought and contemplated writing it where they wind-up together in the end, but it just didn't work out that way. :-/ Sorry, I know some of you wanted it that way, but I'm also taking some of this from personal experience, and in real life, the RL Charlotte and I both walked away from the real life Edward.**

* * *

**I went back and added something to the ending.. Something I thought was fitting. Let me just say that I don't care if people are upset that the ending resulted in them not being together; I don't see how this makes it not an B/E story. I couldn't find a to write it where she could have stayed with him, because it didn't feel right; I fully intended on writing that he got someone else pregnant from the beginning, anyway. I'm sorry it's not to your liking, though; go read another story, maybe? Something fluffy or whatever. This is taken from real life situations, and this is how it ended - although, the RL Bella didn't wind-up dating anybody after Edward.**

* * *

It's been a year.

A lot can happen in a year's time; I met someone shortly after I moved into my apartment (which is in the same building as Charlotte's, just a floor up from her) here in New York. His name is Liam, and he's an x-ray tech and lives on my floor. He and I have a lot in common, and he knows that I'm from the West Coast; he didn't recognize me, but I told him that I write and have a few books published when he asked; he's sweet and gentle; he makes me laugh and smile even when it seems impossible to do so. I sold the house that Edward and I lived in a few months back, choosing to keep my dad's place. Speaking of Edward, Liam doesn't know much about him; just that when we met, I was still coming out of a really long relationship. Funnily enough so was he, so I shared a few details but kept most of it to myself. If I ever want to move past it, I can't keep bringing it up.

Liam and I have been together since, well, a few months after we met (he actually lives right next door); but since both of us were trying to get over things, we went out on dates but took it slow. It's only been recently that it's become more; he's my boyfriend basically, and we both agreed that we don't want to date anyone else. Charlotte approves of Liam, needless to say; while she's not ready to be with anybody yet (and who could blame her?), she's happy that I'm trying to move forward. Charlotte, Liam and I hangout regularly; I love it here in New York still, and don't plan on going back West.

* * *

**June 28 – Long Island, NY**

"Damn, it's hot out," I say as I walk into my apartment.

Liam follows behind me, laughing.

"Little different than Seattle weather, huh?" he teases.

I smirk and grab the NY Yankees off his head; I mess his sweaty hair up, making it stand up which is unusual for it. He laughs and pulls me to him, giving me a wet kiss on my mouth.

I make a face.

"Ew, you're all sweaty!" I laugh.

He grins and leans forward, wiping his wet hair against my forehead. I squeal, pushing him away.

"Ew, ew, ew," I laugh.

He snorts and pulls away.

"Go take a shower, man," I tell him.

He nods.

"Mine or yours?" he asks.

That's another thing that changed; we started staying over at each other's places.

"You can use mine if you want," I say.

He nods and then goes into the bathroom, and a moment later, I hear the water turn on. I start up my computer that sits on the coffee table and log into my email; there isn't anything except spam and a chain email from Charlotte about friends. I pass it on and then log out.

* * *

**September**

I'm in Seattle doing a book signing for _Traffic Lights_. The last person steps up, and I notice that she has a kid with her; it looks to be about seven months old. When I take a closer look, I realize that it looks too much like Edward. The same nose, same hair color, and especially eye color. I put my attention to its mother.

"Cute kid," I say, and mean it.

I won't let my emotions get in the way because it's useless. He has a child now, and I won't be the one to mess that up; he can do that on his own if he wants to.

The woman smiles, adjusting the baby on her hip.

"Thanks."

"How old?" I ask, making small talk as I grab the book from her.

"Just turned seven months—oh, my name is Ashley," she says.

I nod and sign the copy of the third installment.

_**To Ashley – thanks for coming, and congrats on having a baby! –Izzy Swan**_

She takes the book back, shooting me a pretty smile. I can't say anything bad about her even if I wanted to.

* * *

While on the airplane on the way back to Long Island, I write an email.

**TO: Edward C**

**FROM: Bella Swan**

**Subject _Please read this (long time, no talk/see)_**

_**Hi . . . I probably shouldn't be doing this, but it's been over a year and well – yeah. I hope you read it, and if you don't, oh well.**_

_**I found an apartment in the same building as Charlotte's, one floor above her; what I didn't expect to find was someone next door (if you know what I mean). He's . . . he's good, Kyle; he treats me really well, makes me laugh and smile, makes me forget – basically everything that you wanted to happen. I won't lie and say that it was easy moving on (I'm still trying) because it wasn't, but it gets easier; you don't think about it, but when a few months have passed and you look back and see just how much time has gone by, you realize you're beginning to be OK. Liam (that's his name) is patient; more patient than he probably should be, but he is, and I can't thank him enough. We didn't rush into anything; no, we dated casually for a few months, and slowly worked into a relationship – eventually us both saying that we didn't want to date other people.**_

_**I got your letter (and your hoodie). You said you decided to keep the baby? My hope (and wish) is that you stayed to be a father to the child, because it deserves one. I think, issues and problems aside, you'd make a wonderful dad, and I'm not just saying that because I might be jealous or something hold something against you – I don't. I realize that it worked out for the best. **_

_**Do I miss you? Yeah, I fucking miss you. But, I also know that it's better this way. I'd say "let's be friends", but I don't think Liam or your girlfriend (I'm assuming you're with her) would appreciate that too much, besides it's not fair to them nor us.**_

_**I know it'll continue to get easier as time goes on (time is funny like that, isn't it?), but I know that I'll always wonder what you're up to at times, how you are, where you're living and if you're happy.**_

_**The things I hope and wish to come true are that 1) you're happy; 2) you stay around to father that kid; 3) you get help and stick with it; 4) you live as best a life as you can.**_

_**Charlotte asked me in the beginning when she met Liam if I was just settling (it's one of the reasons she won't meet anyone right now; she doesn't want to settle), and I told her "I have to start moving on sometime, somewhere". I'm not settling; I'm happy, and I hope you're happy, too. :)**_

_**For what it's worth, I wouldn't go back in time and change anything between you and I if I could; because then if I did that, I wouldn't have some of the best memories of my life.**_

_**You don't need to feel like you have to reply to this; I just wanted to write this, and maybe give some closure, too.**_

_**~B~**_

* * *

Liam picks me up at the airport at midnight, and drives us to the apartments. We slip inside, go into his apartment, and climb into bed after changing clothes. He holds me close and I'm content.

And I don't stay awake to see the text that says, **it's not my baby –e**.


	26. Outtake 1: Too Far Gone for this World

**Big thanks to TeamBella23 for agreeing to look this over, and also for pointing out that I use too many semicolons. I know she's no beta, but she helped a lot. :)**

**So, without further ado, here's the fixed version! (I tried to fix as much as I could.)**

**(Thanks to _Pink, The Script, Band of Horses, Bon Jovi, Switchfoot, Lifehouse, Nicole—I love you!—TeamBella23, Blanca, and all of you guys)_**

* * *

"_**Losing you tonight takes me from heaven to hell. Dying is to find a farewell." **Vanilla Ninja_

* * *

He pushed me too far tonight.

I stare at the white calm-filled lovers that sit laid out in a pile on my bed, white, rectangle shaped loves. I contemplate what I could do with them; I could do so many things, all resulting in something very bad—I don't care, though. As I said, he pushed me too far, and I'm teetering over that edge right now, in between love and hate, wanting/needing and not giving a fuck, and giving him something to mull over. My mind drifts back to earlier tonight, and his words repeat like a broken record.

"_I despise you," he said quietly, looking down._

_He was eerily calm, and it scared me, but I wouldn't tell him that. I keep quiet, knowing that he was not finished._

"_You're like a . . . a murderer—a killer to my fucking heart!" he said, now looking at me._

_He advanced toward me, and I didn't move to stop him; I didn't care if he hurt me physically, because I welcomed it—it would be better than this emotional hell I've been in for years._

"_You enjoy it, don't you?" he asked, but I know I'm not supposed to answer, so I didn't. "You know how you affect me, yet you continue to leave—causing me to go back to them!"_

_He was referring to the drugs—his real love in his fucked-up life. I snorted, not bothering to keep quiet anymore; I'd had it._

"_Please—you do this to yourself," I said, looking him directly in the face._

"_You're the one that leaves every time we argue—every time we fight, baby girl," he said, smirking._

_I shook my head._

"_You're wrong, but you've never seen that, and you're probably never going to," I said. "I hate you. I hate you for what you've allowed yourself to become! You've let yourself become to immersed in this in senseless way of living, and the drugs are your one true-real love. . ."I laugh. "Yeah, I hate you for that! I hate that I lost my best friend to this."_

_I wasn't just talking about him, though. No, I was speaking about myself as well._

The white loves burn into my eyes, and I can just feel the effects of them and they're not even in my system—yet. They would feel so good once they took effect; calming, relaxing, I wouldn't have to worry—and maybe, just maybe, I would take enough of them to be able to shut off my stupid too-far-gone-for-this-world mind for a little while.

"_You say you hate me," he said, pressing and caging me against the wall. "Yet you're still here."_

_His eyes are cold, and the hate that I've felt grows a little stronger seeing how gone he looks. I hate this, and I despise it with every part of me; but he's right—I'm still here. Why? I have no reason to be, except that I'm weak._

He said that I'm a murderer, but he's half-wrong; we're both murderers. We're like Bonnie & Clyde, out to kill in a ruthless manner; out for blood with a thirst so strong, and wanting to play a game so dangerous that we're bound to get caught. It's going to end one day. They—Bonnie and Clyde—were caught, so why should we think we're invincible? We aren't; not by any means. Things start splitting at the seams and now, tumbling down . . . it's a horrible, but oh so lovely, way to go.

A taste of his own medicine is what he needs the most, but a part of me thinks it won't help. He'll apologize—if I made it that is—and say he'll get better, try to be better, but we both would know it wasn't true and would never happen. I'm sick of living like this—it's not even really living; it's more like waking up, getting through the day with this weight on my shoulders, wondering what's going to happen, what his mood is like, and where it'll go at any given moment.

The loves bore into me from the bed they rest on, taunting me; it would be so easy just to give in. I'm not strong, I'm fucking weak. I'm just like him in ways. I play my part and he plays his games—a game where there aren't any winners, just losers in the end. I grab the cup that sits on my dresser and down some of its contents: Mountain Dew and downers, who would have thoughts? It's almost laughable, really, as I take two of the whites in my palm and lift them to my mouth; I'm trying to forget, to calm down, yet I'm drinking one of the sodas that has the highest amount of caffeine. Caffeine is a drug, technically, so I guess I'm addicted to that too. I swallow the loves and shiver, but it's the good kind—the kind where I know I just did something wrong, but I don't care. Don't I deserve to forget, even for a little while?

* * *

The white loves have taken effect, and even though I'm calmer than I have been in a while, it's not enough—it never is. Music streams into my ears from my earphones, Pink's so damn relatable lyrics shooting into me and lifting me up like nothing else.

_When it's good, then it's good, it's so good 'til it goes bad; 'til you're trying to find the you that you once had; I have heard myself cry "never again", broken down in agony just tryin' to find a friend._

Is this what he feels like when he goes for the drugs? Free, no pain—well, almost. It's kind of intensified but in a whole other way. I can ignore it because it isn't pressing against my chest like a wrecking ball made of fire. Still, two aren't enough, and I grab another two, downing them without a second thought.

_Four._

I glance down at the small pile of lovers, which are growing smaller; I think about playing with fire, and I do. Without a second thought.

_Five._

* * *

I can feel the five loves I took an hour ago taking their full effects as I make my way downstairs, into the kitchen to refill my cup. I might as well take the entire bottle of Dew with me, no? I'm really not too keen on falling down stairs because I can't see or walk straight. I get back into my room with no injuries or accidents, and set the 2 liter of MD down onto the carpet. I glance around the room; the walls are painted a royal purple, and the carpet switched for a thistle purple—I loved my room, but I'm beginning to hate it now. It has _him _all fucking over it. My bedspread is thistle colored with deep purple flowers on it—he bought it for me as a sixteenth birthday present.

I grab another two pills and quickly down them, one of them sticking in my throat for a moment, and I momentarily think that maybe it's a sign that I've made a big mistake, that I'm going to die. Death would be so sweet, though. I've been trying to balance on the ledge of life and death for so long, and I'm dead inside anyway—death would be sweet justice. Maybe it would get him to feel what I feel; it would coarse like a never-ending fire through his entire body, and he would dive deeper into the drugs and bury himself six feet under—the only problem is that we'd meet again. I'm not naïve nor am I blind to the fact that people who take their own lives don't get into heaven. That's the biggest battle I've fought with, and have been too afraid to even cross the line of. I'm afraid of rotting in a pit of all consuming, never-an-end-to-it, fire.

The whites go down . . . this time with a second thought.

_Seven._

* * *

The effects are heavy and I have a hard time staying awake. A song by Lifehouse plays, but it sounds drowned out, far away. Something about an open book . . . a broken clock and how it comforts him. I'm laying down, trying to stay awake. I'm a little afraid now, but I try to shove it aside because I know that there's nothing I can do short of calling 911, and I won't do that. I deserve this. A different songs fades in and out as I try not to lose consciousness.

_We're smiling but we're close to tears, even after all these years, we just now got the feeling that we're meeting for the first, time._

The song disappears as my eyes fall closed and I allow heavy and empty darkness to pull me in; it feels so lovely, so wonderful, to finally be able to be calm, no weight on my chest and shoulders.

It's a horrible, but oh so lovely, way to go.


	27. Chapter 27: Outtake 2: Into the Future

**This is an outtake of the future (hence the title). The first outtake is from the PAST, around the end of their high school years.**

**Twilight's not mine; this plot is.**

* * *

I'm walking through Times Square when my phone buzzes with a text; from Liam.

**Hey, you got a call from Rosalie a lil bit ago. She said to call her back. Love you, babe. –L**

I walk to the nearest Starbucks and order a frappe, then sit down and call Rose.

"_Rosalie Hale speaking," _she answers.

"Hey Rose, it's me, Bella," I say, and take a sip.

I hear her shuffling around.

"_Oh, Bella, hi! Sorry, you caught me off guard; I wasn't expecting you until later."_

I smirk at catching her off guard.

"So," I say. "Liam said you called."

"_Yes, I did; you're needed back in Seattle to talk about your new book,_" she tells me.

I fidget with my cup.

It's been almost two years since I've been back to Seattle. Liz flies out here to see me on occasion; Rosalie and I managed to work something out so that I wouldn't have to travel as much. Last month, I told her I was thinking about writing a new book.

"Um, I'm not sure what I wanna write about yet," I say.

"_You mean it isn't started yet?"_

"Well," I say carefully. "I'm having a bit of difficulty," I admit.

Rose sighs.

"_Well, how about you board the next flight out here, and we'll discuss it?"_

* * *

**Seattle, WA – 7 days later**

I flew into the city yesterday; I'm currently sitting in Rosalie's office.

"So," she says to me. "Any plans for today?"

We just finished talking about what could happen with this latest none-yet-a-book; she gave me some good ideas, and I wrote them down.

I shrug.

"I'm not sure; I'll be here for another week, though," I tell her.

She nods.

"Perhaps you should pay a visit to some old friends or something; I'm sure they miss you," she hints.

Rosalie Hale has never been the overly sentimental type, but she does know how and when to call people out on things.

I bite my lip.

"I doubt that would be a good idea, Rose," I say softly.

She clasps her fingers together.

"Au contraire, I do happen to know when someone is running from something, and you my dear have been running for two years—two years too long!" She points a ballpoint pen at me.

I roll my eyes and mutter immaturely, "Like you'd know anything about that."

She grants her signature Rosalie Hale arched brow.

"Au contraire," she says again. "We all try running from something; you just can't run forever, it's Il n'est pas possible."

I leave Rosalie's with her words ringing through my head.

_Il n'est pas possible._

It means that it's impossible to run forever.

I walk down the busy street and hail a cab, and go back to my hotel.

* * *

**The next day – WA State**

I'm at my house, my dad's old one.

I decided to come back to grab a couple of things, but now I'm thinking that it was a mistake. Liam is with me; he came with on this trip, having been able to some time off. He's outside the house doing something when I hear my name being called; I grab a water bottle and take the short walk to the front yard, and stop immediately when I see who is standing near the driveway.

"Fuck," I whisper, clutching the neck of the bottle.

Standing a few feet away is none other than Edward himself; hands in his pockets, shoulders squared, staring at Liam.

"Who's this?" Liam asks from behind me.

"E-Edward," I answer.

Edward frowns and Liam says, "Oh, the friend from out here!"

Edward's frown transforms into a smirk, recognition lighting up his face.

"I'm Liam," Liam says.

Edward nods but doesn't say anything. I turn around and ask Liam to finish boxing something up for me inside—you know, before this turns into a pissing contest or something.

Once he's safely out of earshot, I turn back to Edward.

"What're you doing here?" I ask, carefully.

He shrugs.

"I saw the driveway occupied, and wondered what was up," he answers.

I only sort of buy his answer, but don't press it.

"So, is that him?" he asks, and I know what he's referring to.

I glare at him but nod.

"Yes," I say.

"Huh," he says. "I noticed he didn't seem to know me, though."

My hands clench at my sides, and I hate that he can still get a reaction out of me, and he knows that he can, too.

"He doesn't deserve to have my past shit all over us, for your _uninvited _information," I tell him lowly.

He smirks.

"Do you love him?" he asks.

"What the fuck?" I say.

He shrugs.

"It's a simple question."

_But not a simple one to answer._

"Yeah, but it's also not one I have to give an answer to—especially to you," I say, and snort.

"I was jus' curious, 'cause you don't look at him the same way as you did me," he says cockily.

I cross my arms—water bottle included—over my chest.

"Stay out of my relationship," I tell him quietly. "Don't you dare interfere; Liam and I are happy, and I'll be damned before I let you fuck that up."

* * *

The ringing of my cell phone wakes me up a few days later; Liam went back to New York yesterday because of work, and I return tomorrow. I light up my phone, wincing when the harsh light hurts my eyes. I don't feel good, and I have a low grade fever; it's also five in the morning.

It's a text, from Edward.

_**Can U meet me someplace, pls? –E**_

I groan, feeling my stomach twisting-pulling.

_**Edward, it's 5 fucking AM, wtf is open at this hour? –Bella**_

I don't care about being nice or anything right now; I'm sick and he's pulling his usual shit.

_**That 24hr Starbucks near our place…pls, I need 2 tell U something. –E**_

I narrow my eyes at his choice of words; he found out long ago that I sold 'our house'. Everything in me says not to go, but I do anyway.

* * *

I walk into Starbucks half an hour later, dressed in a fitting white t-shirt, black sweatpants and black flip-flops. I pull my hair up as I search for Edward, and my eyes immediately find him. I tentatively take the seat across from him, pushing my sunglasses to the top of my head. He looks me over.

"You look. . ." He pauses, trying to find the words.

I roll my eyes.

"Like crap," I finish for him. "I've been running a low grade fever since last night, as well as sneezing."

He shakes his head.

"Um, no; I was gonna say ya look good—sorry you're sick though," he says quietly.

An awkward silence follows, but is broken by Edward standing up.

"Uh, I'm gonna go order something; what'd you want?"

He sounds so unsure of himself that I almost feel bad for him.

"Just ice water," I answer.

I should probably get a coffee, but caffeine is the last thing I need—especially since I still have Nyquil in me. He nods and goes to the counter to order, and I remove my sunglasses to run my fingers through my hair; I cut it last week, and had red and blonde highlights put in—nothing too noticeable, but if you catch it in the right light, you can see them. I take out my phone to check the time and see that there's a missed text; Liam.

_**Hey, it's going on seven and I doubt you're up yet, but I just wanted to say good morning. :) I love you. –L**_

His words make me feel horrible instead of good like they're meant for. He's been so patient for almost two years, knowing that I wasn't ready to just jump right into anything, and here I am sitting here waiting for the reason why I probably won't ever be able to fully give myself to Liam to bring me fucking ice water at 5:45 in the morning.

I'm rereading his text when Edward sits back down, setting my water in front of me. I close out the text and power off my phone, putting it on the table and then take a drink, reveling in the coldness.

"Is something . . . wrong?" he asks, eyeing me.

_Other than me agreeing to meet you at the ass crack of dawn?_

I shake my head.

"Just a text," I answer after swallowing.

"From—what's his name, Lee?" he asks.

I roll my eyes.

"Liam," I correct him.

He nods, and I spend excessively much time and effort trying to find any ounce of maliciousness in his question, his eyes, but I don't find any.

"So," I say, getting irritated at his silence. "You ask me to get up, come over to the only 24-hour coffee joint for miles around, and I agree even though I have a flight to catch tomorrow, just to sit here in silence?" I lean back and cross my arms.

He sighs and drinks some of his coffee.

"Sorry," he mutters.

I roll my eyes.

"I don't want you to apologize; I'm way past that. What I want is to know why I dragged my sick butt out of bed at five in the morning when I didn't have to."

His browns widen but he doesn't say anything; I huff.

"If you're just gonna sit there, I'm leavin'," I announce, trying to push him into talking.

He immediately shakes his head.

"I—I just don't know _where _to begin," he admits.

"Just . . . start." I shrug.

He runs a hand through his hair.

"I . . . I had a paternity test done on the kid before," he says softly.

My chest tightens but I ignore it as best I can.

"And?" I say. "Is it yours?"

It takes a moment, but he eventually nods, and it's all I need.

"Wow—yeah, I so shouldn't be here," I mutter, about to stand up.

Sensing that I'm about to bolt, he touches my hand, and when he does, air leaves my lungs; it's almost too much just being near him, and now he touches me.

"Stay, please," he begs quietly, never leaving my face.

I bite my lip and slowly lean forward, taking my hand back from his.

"Why . . . Why didn't you just write me?" I ask, frowning a little.

He shrugs and leans back in his chair.

"I didn't know your new address, and I doubted that Charlotte would've given you anything if she knew or even suspected that it might be from me," he says.

I roll my eyes at this because it's absurd; Charlotte's not the enemy, quite the _au contraire _as Rosalie would say.

"Char's not the enemy," I tell him, and take a sip.

He nods. "I know that, but I also figured she hated me."

I don't say anything against that because he's not exactly wrong; while Charlotte is like me (she doesn't waste her time hating anything), she also wouldn't welcome Edward back with open arms, per se.

"She hates me, doesn't she?" he guesses.

I set down the cup and sigh, rubbing my temples; I didn't come here to talk about Charlotte.

"It doesn't really matter; now riddle me this: Why am I here?" I say, tired.

"'Cause I wanted to talk," he says, like it's obvious.

I snort.

"Why, though? I mean, I already knew that the kid is yours—why you _lied _about it, though, I don't know, but that's just you," I say.

He narrows his eyes.

"How the hell d'you know?"

I smirk at nothing.

"What's her name . . . Ashley, stopped by a signing I did out here; the kid couldn't have been more than seven months, but it looked just like you. Same eyes, nose, hair," I reveal.

"Shit," he says, and rubs his eyes.

I snort again.

"Did she—did she say anything?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"She didn't look as though she knew who I was aside from the obvious—why she was there—and if she did, no, she never said a word."

She was nice though, which I doubt she would have been if she had known exactly who I was.

"I didn't know she was gonna do that," he says, like it's an apology.

I shrug.

"Just about anybody can come to signings, so it's whatever. She didn't look like she recognized me outside of knowing my book, anyway," I say.

He nods.

"Hey . . . you look different," he says suddenly.

I roll my eyes at his diversion tactic, but nod.

"I highlighted my hair and cut it last week; I also dropped a few pounds."

More than a few pounds, and it wasn't as if I _wanted _to, but I was nervous about coming out here and couldn't really eat anything, plus I had been nauseated for a few weeks prior.

And I'm not pregnant.

"It—you—looks good. Suits you," he comments.

I thank him with a nod and look outside at ever-lightening sky.

"Look, it's getting late," I say. "I still have to finish packing for tomorrow."

He nods and I stand up to slip my phone into my pocket.

"Was there . . . anything else you wanted me to know?" I ask hesitantly.

He nods, and I look at him expectantly, trying to keep my guard up as best as I can.

_I swear, if he tries something—_

"I miss you," he says softly, looking right at me.

_Fucker, _I think bitterly.

I roll my eyes, but he stops me from talking.

"Can we . . . try to be friends, at least?" he asks.

If my jaw could drop to the floor, I imagine it would be doing so right now. Friends; is he serious?

"Are you for real?" I ask in disbelief. "_Friends_?" I snorted the word.

He nods, but has the decency to look a little hesitant, worried, like he knows it's not a smart idea, and he knows why.

"Couldn't we at least . . . try?"

I laugh at his ways of trying to get me back; also at the fact that he _has a kid_, and still wants me around.

"I—you—you've got a kid, dude," I point out. "One that isn't mine, and one I should not be around by right; and I highly doubt Ashley would like the idea of me hanging around."

I wouldn't disagree with her if she didn't like me around; I don't think I'd want my guy's ex around our kid either, even if we were just friends.

"She's pretty laid back," he says.

I laugh.

"No one's _that _laid back," I point out. "Look, it's so not a good idea, alright? Not with our . . . history, and it's not fair to your kid, Ashley, nor is it fair to Liam and I."

He rolls his eyes at the mention of Liam, and that irritates me.

"Hey," I snap, getting his attention once again. "I don't care if you like Liam or not; he's a good guy, and more than I could've ever hoped for! Lay off."

He smirks.

"You don't love him, though—at least, not like you love me," he says, his voice seeping arrogance.

He's right, though; I'll never love anyone like I did—and still do—him, because he was my first love.

"You have got to let me go," I say softly. "It's not good for either of us to keep coming back around like this."

His face breaks out into a smirk, a knowing grin.

"What?" I ask warily.

"I'll always have a part of you with me," he says cryptically.

I narrow my eyes.

"What'd you do, get a tattoo of my name?" I laugh.

He shakes his head.

"Nope, better; remember when you sold our house?" he asks.

I nod, and a sinking feeling fills my stomach, and I hope, hope, hope I'm wrong, but he proves me right.

"Tell me you did not," I say quietly.

"I bought it." He shrugs.

"Please, tell me you're not currently _living _in it!"

He nods, and I want to punch him.

He moved his kid's mother, his kid and himself into what was once _our _home all because he can't fucking let go?

"You're unbelievable," I hiss. "I actually, for once, can't believe you'd do something like that; does Ashley know?"

He shakes his head.

I grab the cup of water, my bag, and swing it over my shoulder.

"Don't—don't contact me, anymore; don't even try to! Stay the fuck away from me, my life. It's obvious you're never gonna change! Just tell me one thing – did you at least change the furniture, any of it?" I ask.

When I'd sold the house, I didn't bother moving the furniture out; I took the linens and what I had wanted, but left everything else.

The look that he gives me says it all.

"Oh, God," I say, ready to throw-up.

"Just . . . you need serious help," I tell him before I head for the door. "And I sincerely hope you get it one day—for the sake of your kid if nothing else."

I get into my car and just sit there, my mind spinning. He kept the damn house, and moved _them _into it—who the fuck does that?

_Somebody who refuses to move on._

Clearly; and I thought _I _had problems-trouble with letting go.

A tap sounds on my window and I jump; it's Edward, and he motions for me to step out. I shake my head, but I do roll it down.

"I didn't want you to go like that," he says as soon as it's rolled down.

I snort.

"How else did you think I'd react?" I say.

"I don't know, honestly; what I do know is that I fucking miss you, though," he tells me.

That's twice he's told me that.

He's leaning into the car, looking at me like he wants me again.

I let my head fall back against the headrest.

"Why do you wanna take away my happiness?" I whisper. "Right when I think everything is going to be OK, you reappear."

He goes to say something, but my coughing fit stops him; the nauseated feeling returns.

"You OK?" he asks, concerned.

I nod.

"Yeah, jus' been nauseas lately," I answer.

His eyes widen and they drop to my stomach; I roll my eyes.

"Stop," I tell him. "I'm not pregnant."

A breath that sounds like relief escapes him, making me angry.

"But, so what if I was?" I challenge. "Quit looking like you're gonna shit yourself; I'm nowhere near ready to be a mother."

He nods.

"Move," I say, and then clear my throat. "Scoot before I run over your damn foot."

"Just come back inside with me, and talk—just talk, I promise," he says and smirks.

I look at him, disgusted.

I start the car, saying, "I'm not doing this; it's not fair to anyone, and I'm not gonna cheat on Liam—in short, I'm not _you_; I might have started to be you at some point, but at least _I _changed. I thought about it after our last encounter, and y'know what, you sure didn't wait long before you knocked someone else up. Perfect timing, really; I was on a different coast, you were doing God only knows what," I say.

He huffs and glances at the clock on the dash.

"Fuck, I gotta get going," he groans.

I raise an eyebrow.

"I have to take Sophie to daycare," he explains.

I snort, realizing the irony; he had a girl, which I hadn't noticed when Ashley came to the signing, just that the kid looked like Edward.

"Nice," I comment.

"What?" he says, looking confused.

I shake my head. "Oh, nothing."

* * *

I stop at Bartell Drugs and pick up a test on the way back to the house. Once there, I run up to the bathroom and pee on the stick, and nervously wait the ten minutes; it was why I had chosen water instead of anything else at Starbucks; water goes through me like nothing else.

I text Li while I wait.

_**Hey, sorry I ran to the drugstore for something. I hope you have a good day. –B**_

I glance at the time on my phone after sending it and it's time to check the results, but Liam responds before I can.

_**Are you okay? –L**_

_**I'm on break right now if you need me. :) –L**_

I go into the bathroom holding my phone, and taking a troubled breath, I look at the stick. A gasp of air escapes me; the results aren't exactly what I expected, but a part of me is sad for some reason at the result.

* * *

**A/N: I contemplated having her sleep with Edward, go to the drugstore the next morning and purchase Plan B, and then take off for NY without ever talking to him again, but uh yeah, I DO have morals, and there are lines I just won't cross, loll. **


End file.
